


Innocent and Faithful

by suitesamba



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-05
Updated: 2012-11-05
Packaged: 2017-11-18 00:30:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/554906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suitesamba/pseuds/suitesamba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Auror Harry Potter wants to advance his career and to do so, needs to learn a foreign language. With Hermione's help, he enrolls in a Muggle evening Spanish class only to find that Severus Snape has enrolled in the same class. As Harry's old fascination with the Half-Blood Prince is reawakened, and a pointy-nosed Slytherin and a ridiculous promise stand between himself and Severus, Harry is not above using his superior foreign language skills and some extra-curricular activity to get his man. </p>
<p><i>Disclaimer</i>: Not mine. Never were. Never will be.  No profit is being made from this amateur work.</p>
<p><b>Warnings:</b> How many ways can one say “penis” in Spanish?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Innocent and Faithful

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Snarry-a-Thon 2012 on LJ/IJ/DW.

Harry Potter was late—again.

It wasn’t his fault. He had a real job after all, a position with the Ministry of Magic in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. He’d been an Auror for five years, in fact, and was hoping to work himself up into a new position with the Department of International Magical Cooperation, International Crime Division.

Unfortunately, those positions required knowledge of a foreign language.

Harry had done his homework. While there were only one or two positions available for most languages, there were six for Chinese Speakers, five for Hindi and eight for Spanish speakers. A quick look at the current employment roster told Harry that half of the Spanish-speaking agents were so elderly they didn’t even travel anymore. 

Spanish it was. With an intensive course, he’d be ready to step in to a position as soon as one of the old geezers retired. He’d always wanted to learn a language anyway, and Hermione helped him find a night class that met two nights a week, geared towards quick acquisition of Spanish language skills for those planning to live abroad or travel extensively.

The problem was that the class started at six o’clock, and he got off work at five. An hour should be plenty of time for a wizard to Floo home, change clothes, Apparate to a safe apparition point and pop out onto the streets of London to walk the final block or so to the classroom.

But Harry was still living at Grimmauld Place, and he had forgotten to tell Kreacher not to prepare dinner. Kreacher had outdone himself with Harry’s favorite seafood bisque and Harry had felt obliged to eat at the old kitchen table while Kreacher complained about Noodles, the part-kneazle housecat that he had given Ginny three years ago as a kitten, and that she had left there with him a year later when she moved in with Romilda Vane.

Now _that_ had been a surprise.

Apparently, Noodles had just dropped a litter of kittens in Kreacher’s little closet off the kitchen. And all this time Harry had thought Noodles was a boy.

By the time Harry had eaten and moved the five tiny kittens and their mother to a warm closet in his bedroom, he barely had time to take off his Auror robes, grab the textbook and workbooks he’d purchased by mail order last week and Apparate to the safepoint inside the Leaky Cauldron. His Spanish class was only a block away and he ran along the crowded sidewalk against the London foot traffic. The teacher was taking roll when he finally hurried into the classroom and slipped into a chair at the back of the room.

The teacher looked up at him and smiled. She was middle-aged and seemed pleasant. He smiled back at her and she continued calling out names.

“Danter, Mark.”

“Presente.”

Presente? The students had obviously had some instructions about replying in Spanish that he hadn’t heard.

“Dayton, Colleen.”

“Presente.”

“Flitwick, Filius.”

“Presente.”

What the hell? Harry swiveled his head around? Flickwick? In his Muggle Spanish class?

But the man who had responded was not Professor Flitwick.

Shit.

“Langston, Emmett.”

“Presente.”

“Lovegood, Xeno.”

Harry was staring at the back of the man who had answered for Filius Flitwick. It was Snape. It had to be Snape. The hair alone was enough to peg him as his former professor. What the hell was _he_ doing here? If this was Hermione’s idea of a joke….

“Lovegood? Xeno?”

Snape’s head swiveled around to scan the room, his gaze soon coming to rest on Harry. His look of surprise soon turned into a glare—he looked as put out as ever. Harry suddenly remembered something.

“Presente! I’m here!” He raised his hand and the instructor smiled at him and nodded. How could he have forgotten he’d registered under the name Xeno Lovegood?

As the course literature had promised, there were only twelve students in the class. Unbelievably, Snape was not the oldest. There were two women older than him. One of them reminded him vaguely of Mrs. Figg and the other of Dolores Umbridge. He shuddered. The remaining eight students were all in their twenties or thirties. He was horrible with names and, as he usually did, began to mentally refer to the other students by nicknames—“Pink Hair,” “Tattoo Boy,” “Shy Girl.”

After passing out the syllabus, explaining the course requirements and reviewing the textbook and workbooks, the instructor—Señora Arruda—informed them that each of them would get a Spanish name, and they would use these names for all in-class conversation for the rest of the class term.

Harry knew Snape did not like this idea. His face, visible to Harry in profile, was already set in its usual scowl, but he somehow managed to scowl even deeper as Sra. Arruda mentioned “Spanish names.” 

Harry and Severus’ unusual choice of aliases did not exactly make Spanish name assignment favorable.

Shy Girl, whose name turned out to be Marie, became “María.” Sra. Arruda led the class in greeting María in Spanish, and Harry obediently formed the words with the rest of the class. “Buenas tardes, María.” Tattoo Boy’s name was Henry. He became Enrique. Pink Hair was Teresa, and, unbelievably, the older woman who resembled Umbridge happened to be named Deloris and became Dolores.

“Alright now,” said the instructor, standing next to Severus’ desk. “Filius. Quite an uncommon name, but not one we can’t handle. Are you the first-born son in your family?”

Severus grunted out an affirmative. 

“Filius is Latin for ‘son,’” she explained to the class. “In Spanish, the word is _hijo_.” She repeated it, stressing the pronunciation. “Eee-ho. Clase, repita por favor. Eee-ho.”

“Hijo,” repeated the students, obediently. Harry noted that Snape carefully wrote something in his notebook. He wondered if Snape had ever used a Muggle pen before. He held it rather awkwardly.

“But Hijo isn’t really an appropriate first name, especially for someone of Señor Flitwick’s age, so let’s pick another one that begins with ‘F,’ shall we?” And before Snape apparently knew what was happening, he had been christened ‘Fidel.’”

“It means ‘faithful,’” explained Sra. Arruda. 

“It is the name of the Communist leader of Cuba,” said Severus.

“How about Fabio then?” asked Sra. Arruda brightly.

“Fidel is wonderful,” replied Severus dryly. 

She turned to Harry next. “Xeno, eh?” She turned to the class. “Xeno means foreign, or different. It’s from the Greek.”

Harry could almost feel Snape rolling his eyes.

“My middle name is Harry,” offered Harry, hoping for quick salvation.

“From Henry, and we already have an Enrique,” she stated. “Let’s see, since the ‘H’ is silent in Spanish, we should pick a name that begins with a vowel. How about ‘Inocencio.’?”

Harry looked around at the other students. No one seemed to be paying much attention except Severus. “Inocencio?”

“It was a favorite among the saints,” she explained. “Like Stephen the Innocent.” She nodded at him. She seemed to like his eyes—her own looked a bit dreamy. “It fits you.”

“I’m not exactly innocent,” protested Harry, but she had moved on to the next person, Mr. Moustache. His real name was David which easily translated into Spanish as ‘David.’”

“Say it with me class—‘Dah-veed.’”

“Dah-veed,” they repeated. Once again, Snape bent over his notebook and wrote something down. By this point, Harry was paying as much attention to Snape as he was to the instructor. He forcibly pulled his eyes away from his former professor and focused on his current one. No. He would _not_ obsess on Snape. Hadn’t he learned his lesson with the Half-Blood Prince’s textbook?

With the names all distributed—ordinary, common, acceptable Spanish-language names with the exception of Fidel and Inocencio—the instructor returned to the front of the room and leaned against her desk, then scooted up to sit on it, her legs not quite reaching the floor. Harry could not help but compare this instructor to Snape. Snape would never have sat on his desk. He’d have docked points had he caught anyone doing so. He might even have assigned detention. Or cut off the offending student’s legs at the knees.

“We’re not going to sit in rows in this class,” Sra. Arruda announced. “This class is about conversation, about getting comfortable speaking in a foreign language. We need to get to know each other, don’t we? Necesitamos conocernos, ¿verdad?” She nodded her head vigorously. David answered “Sí.” Harry looked at him suspiciously.

“So then, let’s rearrange our desks in a circle,” she said brightly. She hopped down off the desk and started moving some of the empty desks out of the way. “Un círculo,” she said, making a looping shape with her hand enthusiastically as several students stood up and began moving desks with her. “Repita. Sere-coo-lo.”

“Círculo,” repeated Harry as he stood. Sra. Arruda smiled encouragingly at him. 

Even Snape stood when it became obvious that the circle thing was absolutely going to happen. He studied the arrangement, scooting his desk to keep it in alignment with the growing circle. Harry thought he would have used a ruler if he’d had one available—no, not a ruler. What did one use to measure curved lines? He ended up moving his desk as far as possible from Harry’s. Unfortunately, in the end, it was directly across from his.

Settled again, the teacher began to speak in a curious mix of Spanish and English. She would say a sentence then restate part of it—or at least that’s what Harry assumed she was doing—in Spanish. Apparently, they were now going to explain why they had decided to enroll in intensive Spanish conversation. Across from him, Snape’s face took on the same odd look Harry’s had. _Quick! Think of something!_ Harry told himself. Something other than “I want to be a foreign secret agent for the Wizarding World.” As he came up with a plan, lame but acceptable, he found himself even more curious about why Snape was in this class. This did not bode well. As always, when his brain was presented with Severus Snape—either in thought or in person—it got stuck in an endless loop. _Snape, Snape, Snape…._

“I’m getting married,” Harry announced when it was his turn to speak. “My mother-in-law only speaks Spanish. I’d like to be able to honor her by speaking to her in her own language.”

“¡Felicitaciones!” offered Sra. Arruda. She looked genuinely happy. Harry beamed back at her. Success. She turned to the class. “Suegra. Soo-AY-grah.”

“Suegra,” repeated the class.

“That’s ‘mother-in-law,’” explained Sra. Arruda. She turned back to Harry. “And where does your future-mother-in-law live? 

Harry was looking across at Snape. He looked like he didn’t believe Harry. Not at all, in fact. Had he heard about Harry’s proclivities?

“Spain,” answered Harry quickly. “Outside of Madrid. She’s blind.”

Now everyone was staring at him. Where the hell had _that_ come from?

“O, qué lástima,” sighed the instructor. “Ciega.”

“See-> _ay_ -ga,” repeated the class obediently, this time without prompting.

Harry felt an odd compulsion to explain “She looked at a solar eclipse,” but he bit it back just in time, and the instructor moved on to the next student.

Harry was all ears when it was Snape’s turn to explain why he had enrolled. He knew that Snape had his own shop in Diagon Alley, a high-end establishment that sold rare potions ingredients and expensive brews to cure unusual and disfiguring maladies. He doubted Snape needed to speak Spanish to deal with his clientele there.

“I am a…scientist,” explained Snape.

“O, ¡qué bueno! Científico.” She held up her hands in the gesture Harry already recognized as the “Repeat the word, please” gesture.

“See-en- _tee_ -fee-co,” repeated the class.

Snape looked like he prevented himself from rolling his eyes only with great effort. “I am going on a research expedition to South America this fall.”

“How fascinating,” said the instructor. “Which part of South America, Fidel?

“Ecuador and Bolivia,” he answered, so quickly that Harry realized Snape actually _did_ have plans to visit those countries. “With a side excursion to the Galapagos Islands.”

“¡Magnífico!” exclaimed Sra. Arruda. “Las Islas Galápagos!” She gestured with her hands, looking at the class expectantly. “Clase?”

“Islas Galápagos,” they repeated obediently.

“When are you going on your expedition, Fidel?” asked Dolores. She was so excited she was nearly salivating. She batted her thin eyelashes at Snape.

“September,” he replied cautiously.

“Ooooohhh! That’s when I’m going to the Galapagos!” she exclaimed. “I wonder if we’re on the same expedition?”

Snape stared at the woman. He looked flummoxed. She fluttered her sparse eyelashes again. He blinked.

“Oh, I am sorry madam. Did I say the Galapagos? I meant to say Easter Island.” He turned his head back toward the instructor. Harry grinned.

“Easter Island!” exclaimed Dolores. “That’s it! The island with the giant heads, right? That’s where we’re going too!”

“Cabezas gigantes,” said Señora Arruda, still smiling through the confusion and leading the class through this interesting geographic foray.

“Ca-bay-zahss Hee-ghan-tase,” repeated Harry. His gaze was still fixed on Snape. He wondered how one said “Giant Nose” in Spanish. Snape’s nose really _was_ big, though not as big as it had seemed at Hogwarts. Of course, Harry was no longer looking up at it from a cowering position in a chair while Snape paced around him menacingly.

By the time the two-hour class was half over, Harry had decided not only that he was going to like Spanish, but that he was going to be quite good at it. The instructor praised his pronunciation several times, as well as his quick grasp of the simple grammar and vocabulary they were covering.

Snape fumed.

While certainly not the worst of the students in the class, not by far, his language abilities were clearly not as natural as Harry’s. His pronunciation was adequate but slow, and he thought too long before answering, clearly wary of making an error. He took copious notes—Harry for the life of him could not figure out what he was writing down. He himself had not written down anything except the other students’ Spanish names. After “Fidel” he had written “Severus,” and as he looked at that line now and again, he wondered why he’d not written “Snape.” Well, they were all on a first-name basis in this class, weren’t they?

He was 26 years old and had been out of school for seven years—he, Hermione and Ron had all gone back to Hogwarts after the Final Battle to finish out their education and take their N.E.W.T.s, and that had set him back a year. He hadn’t seen Snape since he and Hermione had run into him at a coffee shop a couple years ago. Snape had dropped nearly out of sight for three years after the Battle, recuperating from his wounds somewhere on the continent. He’d opened up a shop in Diagon Alley soon after his return, and Harry had seen him from time to time as he went about business there. When he and Hermione had bumped into him in a London coffee shop, Snape had been with another man at a table for two, drinking coffee and not looking one bit like he was there on business.

Harry, newly dumped by Ginny, had already started dating again and, taking a page from Ginny’s book, was no longer limiting himself to the opposite sex. The sudden realization that Snape was gay was only momentarily disconcerting, and only because of those memories of Snape’s love for Harry’s mother. Once he was able to focus on Snape’s companion, he knew that Snape had good taste in men. Harry would never have approached Snape and his date but Hermione couldn’t help herself. Thus, they were introduced by a reluctant Snape to Paul, a “friend,” and were in turn introduced as “former students.”

“You didn’t tell me you taught Harry Potter, Severus,” Paul had said, turning a bright smile on Harry. Harry, unaccountably, had melted. Snape had been obviously displeased at the puppy-dog look on Paul’s face and had stared at Harry, black eyes boring into him, until Harry had become so uncomfortable that he’d given their excuses and pulled Hermione away.

When class was over that night, Snape gathered his belongings, helped return the chairs to their original positions, and then strode up to the teacher with open notebook. Harry gathered his own things, lingering a few minutes, but eventually wandered out into the corridor. He leaned against the wall next to the drinking fountain as the other students departed, most of them hurrying out of the building to catch the bus or get to the tube. He could see Severus’ back from where he stood. Harry, two years into this trial period of open bisexuality, now showed a definite preference for the male gender in his partners. He found himself looking a lot—at younger men, older men, men who were obviously straight, men who were definitely gay. He wasn’t interested in Snape—no way, no how—but he couldn’t help but look. This was one of the very few times he’d ever seen Snape in Muggle clothing. Of course, Snape was wearing black trousers. That went without saying. Black leather boots, a black turtleneck and a dark grey wool jacket completed the outfit well. Harry stood up straighter as Severus walked out the door and turned down the hall without looking at him.

“Wait—Snape. Severus.” The name slid off his tongue easily. It had the feeling of Parseltongue. Snape kept walking.

“Fidel!”

That name got Snape’s attention. He whirled around and faced Harry.

“Do _not_ use that name outside of the classroom,” he warned, voice menacingly low. “If it gets back to _anyone_ of our mutual acquaintance—and I do mean _anyone_ —I shall be thoroughly displeased.” He glared at Harry. “You do _not_ want to see me displeased, do you Potter?”

“Shh!” Harry looked around. Severus sighed and rolled his eyes. Harry walked to catch up with Severus and slowed to walk beside him. “Small world, isn’t it? Us being in this class together?”

Snape stared at him. “Yes,” he said after a pause. “Pity your fiancée and blind mother-in-law couldn’t enroll as well.”

Harry shrugged. “Should I have said that I’m applying for a position with the International Crime Division of the Department of International Magical Cooperation?” He hurried to keep up with Snape as the other man continued walking down the corridor. “Why are you really taking the class? Are you really going to South America to hunt for Potions ingredients?”

“I didn’t say I was doing that,” answered Snape. He’d walked out into the street and turned right, clearly heading for the Leaky Cauldron.

“No, you didn’t. You said you were going to Ecuador and Bolivia and to the Galapagos, or maybe to Easter Island. To whichever place old Dolores wasn’t heading, anyway.”

Snape gave a tight-lipped smile but said nothing. 

“Did she remind you of Umbridge?”

“Immediately,” answered Snape. He kept walking and finally, when they reached the door of the Leaky Cauldron, stopped and turned toward Harry.

“Do I need to look at the tag on your collar?” he asked.

Harry looked puzzled. “What’s my collar got to do with anything?” he said. 

“You’re acting like a lost puppy that hopes to follow me home.” His voice was sharp but somehow Harry thought he seemed half-amused.

Harry shrugged. “I’m living at Grimmauld Place,” he said. “Thought I’d Floo home from inside.” He followed Snape as he turned and made his way through the door into the Leaky Cauldron. “So you live here? Above your shop?”

“You are surprised?” asked Severus as he walked through the nearly empty pub toward the Diagon Alley entryway. “You’re wondering why I do not live in my ancient family estate in Wales? The one with the 13th century castle and the sea monster in the moat?”

“Is that anywhere near Potter Mansion?” asked Harry. He stopped and raised his voice a bit. Snape whirled around and stared at him. Harry met his stare and, after a drawn-out moment, shook his head and smiled.

“See you next week, Professor.”

“I’m not your professor, Potter.” Snape whirled back around and hurried away.

“Old habits,” whispered Harry, watching him go. “Old habits.”

~*~

The class met twice a week, and after the second meeting, Harry knew that Snape would never accept that Harry Potter could possibly be better than he at anything other than Quidditch and getting in trouble.

And it wasn’t for Snape’s lack of trying or preparation that Harry was better. Snape obviously memorized the vocabulary. He studied the conjugations of verbs. He practiced gender agreement of nouns and adjectives. But he struggled with pronunciation. He was unable to roll his Rs. He could not produce the guttural naturally. He glared at Harry as the sounds flowed from his mouth like he was born to speak the language.

By the end of the fourth class, it was threatening to become a pissing match and Harry wasn’t about to go down that road. 

“Are you really all that much better than he is?” asked Hermione on Friday evening. They were at the Burrow celebrating Ron’s birthday and were sitting comfortably around the fireplace. Ginny was playing with Rose and Ron was on his third beer. 

Harry shrugged. “I know I don’t study as much as he does, or prepare as much. He probably does better on the written quizzes. I think it just comes easier to me than it does to him, and I’m certainly better at speaking it than he is.”

“I still can’t believe you didn’t get out of that class when you walked in and saw Snape,” said Ron. 

“I need that class,” said Harry. “And really—what’s so bad about Snape? He’s just another war hero, just like the rest of us,” he quipped.

Ron rolled his eyes. George, who was sitting on the sofa next to Ron, snorted. “Yeah, just another war hero like the rest of us,” he said. “And Hagrid’s a ballet dancer.”

“He’s just an ordinary bloke,” said Harry. “Really. You should hear him in class.”

“Snape? An ordinary bloke?” Ginny stopped playing peek-a-boo with Rose long enough to look up at Harry. She stared at him critically a moment. “You’re interested in him. In _Snape._ ”

“I am not,” denied Harry immediately. “He’s too old. And not my type at all.”

“What, he doesn’t have a cock?” said Ron. He elbowed George and they both laughed.

“With that definition, you’re both my type too,” said Harry.

“What? Ginny wasn’t enough for you? Want to work yourself through the rest of the Weasleys now too?” asked George with an exaggerated wink.

“He’s had Charlie, too,” said Ginny helpfully.

“Um, Ginny….” Harry began.

“Wait—you and Charlie?” Ron said.

“Have another beer, Ron,” sighed Hermione. She turned back to Harry. “Listen, if you want to prevent this thing with Snape at school from becoming an all-out war, why don’t you work _with_ him instead of against him? Get together outside of class to study. Perhaps he can help you with vocabulary and grammar and you can help him with pronunciation.”

“Get together?” Harry said. “Hmm. That’s actually a smart idea. Kill this stupid competition and team up instead. Do you think he’ll go for it?”

“I have no idea. But if he says yes, at least you’ll have the chance to figure out if you’re really interested in him.”

Harry stared at her. “You think I’m interested in him?”

Ron laughed. “Mate, you’ve _always_ been interested in Snape.”

“Yeah,” volunteered Ginny. “Once you even called his name out in bed.”

“I did not!” protested Harry. He glared at Ginny. “You’re not helping, you know.”

Ginny grinned back at him cheekily. “Well, I was pretending you were Madam Hooch. Who’s to say you weren’t pretending I was Snape?”

“Oh Severus, is that your nose or are you just happy to see me?” said George in a sing-song voice. Harry fumbled around for the throw pillow to toss at him but he’d already thrown it at Ginny after she made her Madam Hooch comment.

“Enough,” he said. But he turned back to Hermione. “Do you really think I’m interested in Snape?”

“I hate to say it, but Ron’s right,” she said. She stuck her tongue out at Ron as he and George exchanged a high five. “You’ve always been interested in him.”

“But I didn’t know I liked blokes until after Ginny dumped me,” Harry protested.

Ginny, who was standing behind him, ruffled his hair. “You poor thing! Look how long you mourned me. I bet an entire week went by before you started dating that Austrian Quidditch player.”

“Georg,” said Hermione. “Georg Vonder Haar.”

“I remember,” said Harry.

“You know, he kind of looked like Snape,” said Ron helpfully. “Dark eyes, dark hair, ugly nose….”

“It was broken,” said Harry. “Several times.”

Ron shrugged. “Just sayin’….”

“I’m not interested in Snape,” said Harry. He hoped he sounded convincing. He was trying to convince himself, actually, because the more they talked about it, the more his actual interest grew.

“Uh-huh,” said George. “But if anything _does_ get going between you two, I’d love some of that potion he sells for erectile dysfunction.”

“Something you want to tell us, George?” asked Ginny.

“I want the formula, you git,” said George. “So I can sell a joke version of it at my store.”

“A joke version?” asked Harry. “Like one that gives you an erection that lasts longer than four hours?”

The men in the room collectively winced. 

“I’ll see what I can do,” said Harry. But privately, he knew that if he ever got hold of a potion like that, George Weasley was the last person he’d give it to.

~*~

“Why don’t we get together this weekend?”

It was Thursday and Harry had once again waited for Snape outside of the classroom as Snape went over the errors he’d made on their written quiz with Sra. Arruda. Harry had glanced at his quiz paper. Snape had scored 98%. It looked like he’d only got a few accent marks out of place. For a man who supposedly wanted to be able to communicate in a foreign country, Snape was far too preoccupied with the details of the written language. Harry wondered if he was planning to write out his conversations with guides and shopkeepers. True, accent marks and such were important; leaving off the “tilde” could change “I am 25 years old” (Tengo 25 años) to “I have 25 anuses” (Tengo 25 anos.) But in everyday conversation, they were simply invisible, a part of the spelling of the word itself.

“Get together this weekend?” Snape stopped immediately and turned toward Harry. He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. He was wearing the black trousers and boots again, but this time with a very dark green turtleneck and a gray jacket in a herringbone pattern. Harry considered it a personal victory that he was able to recognize that pattern—wizarding robes weren’t available in herringbone. 

“To study,” Harry explained quickly when he saw the suspicious look on Snape’s face. “I thought you might be able to help me with the conjugation of those i-r stem-changing verbs.” 

“Oh.” Snape’s face relaxed and took on the quasi-superior look—half smug, half disdainful—that Harry so remembered. Score one for Hermione, who had suggested that Harry make it seem he needed Snape’s help more than Snape needed his.

“And we can work on our oral presentation,” added Harry. Snape had turned and continued to move toward the door, but slowed so that Harry did not have to nearly jog to keep up with him.

“We don’t have our partner assignments yet,” Severus pointed out.

“No, but she said we could work with whoever we wanted—and she’d pair us up next week if we didn’t have someone in mind. Seems natural for us to work together—unless you’re planning on working with Dolores?”

Severus scoffed. “I would rather soak my hands in bobotuber pus than be paired with her,” he said with a long sigh. “This assignment is going to require out-of-class preparation time with someone. It may as well be with you. At least we can meet in Diagon Alley and be comfortable in robes instead of this Muggle apparel.”

“You’re not comfortable?” asked Harry. He himself was, of course, wearing jeans, trainers and one of the dozen solid-colored polo shirts Ginny had made him buy after complaining that all he ever wore was stretched-out t-shirts. He had a lightweight jacket on top, unzipped. In short, he was absolutely comfortable—more so than he’d have been with his robes billowing out all over the place and getting caught on things as they always did when he tried to move around in his cluttered office.

Severus glanced at him, then looked ahead and kept walking. He tugged on his high turtleneck collar. “In our world, I don’t feel the need to hide my scars all the time. No one asks how I got them and most don’t even stare too long at them anymore.”

“Oh. Right.” Harry felt rather stupid for having forgotten the scars on Severus’ neck. He’d seen them on several occasions, but hadn’t paid them much attention. Quite a few people he knew had come out of the War with scars. He hardly noticed George’s missing ear anymore, or the raised welts around Ron’s upper arms, or the thin line on Hermione’s face. Even Neville had been left with an interesting scar that made his chin look like it had a cleft. Interesting, he thought, that his own trademark scar, while still present, had faded over the last few years and was always nearly covered by his longer hair.

“I suppose I have time available this weekend,” said Severus when Harry didn’t say anything more. “If we must do this.”

“It’s either me or Dolores,” joked Harry. “Or Enrique. He’s kind of cute.”

“Enrique is married with two children,” said Severus. “You don’t pay attention at all, do you?”

“I like kids,” said Harry, shrugging.

“You’re impossible. How long have you been experimenting with men, anyway?”

“I’m not experimenting, and how did you know?” asked Harry.

“How did I know that the Boy Who Lived was dumped by Ginevra Weasley for a woman and rebounded by expanding his opportunities and pursuing men as well as women? You really need to ask? Do you read _The Daily Prophet_ or don’t you?”

Harry shrugged. “I didn’t think you paid any attention to those stories,” he said.

“I read the entire paper. No—better put, I read each and every headline. And the headlines alone contain enough information to keep me up to date on your social life. ‘Harry Potter spotted in Muggle Club with Keeper Georg Vonder Haar.’ Please.”

“It’s not a crime to like men,” said Harry. “You do.”

Snape scowled again. “At least my dalliances do not get reported in _The Daily Prophet._ ”

“Well, you used to like women, too,” said Harry. “So we have that in common.”

“We have something else in common,” said Snape. They were halfway to the Leaky Cauldron already and had just passed the tube entrance. “We were both spurned by fiery redheads.”

Harry laughed. He couldn’t help it. Despite the memories he had seen of Snape and his mother, the overwhelming evidence that Snape had grieved for her—and grieved deeply—the fact that he was able to joke about it now, even lightly, put Harry at ease. It was as if Snape had given him permission—given _them_ permission—to move past that awkward and obvious elephant in the room they each would have pretended they couldn’t see.

“True,” Harry said, smiling. “So, where are we meeting? And when? I have all day Saturday free, and Sunday evening.”

“I close the shop at one o’clock on Saturdays,” said Snape. Despite the joke that had passed between them, he was back to all business now. “Two o’clock then? I have work space in my shop that will be appropriate for our needs, and we will not be disturbed.”

“Two o’clock,” agreed Harry. He followed Snape the last half block to the Leaky Cauldron. As Snape moved toward the doorway to Diagon Alley, Harry added, “And thanks. I appreciate the help.”

Severus simply nodded, moving with purpose, as he always did, and not even turning his head to say goodbye.

~*~

Harry had never been in Snape’s store. He didn’t require Potions ingredients, rare or otherwise, and he hadn’t had the need—medical or personal—for a specialty potion in quite some time. The store was located close to Gringotts, in the high rent district of Diagon Alley, where the street was broadest and cleanest. It had a simple and elegant storefront sign posted high over the front windows—Prince’s Potions—and script on the window reading, “Potions Research and Supplies.” Oddly, the windows were tinted so that you could see nothing but shadowy shapes when you looked in from the street. Harry didn’t know if the door would be unlocked—it was past closing time, after all—so he cupped his hands around his eyes and attempted to have a look inside the shop from the glass front door.

The door pushed open against him as soon as he leaned in to have a better look.

“Get in here before someone sees you,” said Snape. He already sounded rather put out.

Harry slipped inside, eyes widening in surprise as he stepped into an open space totally devoid of shelving, disgusting potions ingredients floating in formaldehyde, and the rotten eggs and cabbage smell prevalent over at Slug and Jiggers. 

“Wow! Definitely not what I expected,” Harry said.

“You expected Slug and Jiggers,” said Snape. It was not a question.

“Of course—it’s not like I’ve been in that many apothecaries,” answered Harry. He’d stepped farther into the shop and looked around, taking in the counter at the back of the room and the two highly polished tables—more like desks, really—spaced three or four feet apart on the dark oak hardwood floor. Each desk had a set of polished brash scales and a large leather-bound catalogue on it, a small wooden cabinet beside it and a wooden chair—on rollers—behind it.

“Slug and Jiggers caters to students and to those brewing common household potions. My clientele are more….”

“Select? Exclusive?” Harry finished when he paused.

“Discerning,” said Snape. He eyed Harry. “Why are you wearing those robes?”

“It’s my uniform,” said Harry, looking down at his crimson robes and realizing now why Snape did not want him lingering outside the door. He didn’t want any passersby to think his shop was being raided by the Aurors. “I came from work.”

Snape raised one eyebrow. “On Saturday?”

“I’m an Auror, Snape. If we only worked Monday through Friday, there’d be a lot more crime on the weekends, don’t you think?”

Snape didn’t answer. Instead, he gestured to one of the desks and pulled the chair from the opposite desk over to it. Harry put his Spanish books down then sat on the chair, glancing at the cabinet beside the desk. Something was off about it.

“This place is awfully sparse for a Potions shop,” he said.

Snape shook his head in mock exasperation. “It’s more than a Potions shop. I sell rare ingredients—extremely rare ingredients. They are kept in the basement of this shop. Think of it as a safe—a very large safe. I also make exceedingly complex potions on special request. Clients come to the shop and meet with a consultant. The consultants sit at these desks. They review the requested ingredients or the requested potion. If the client is looking for ingredients, a list is created and placed here.” Snape walked over to the cabinet and opened the door, revealing what looked to be a dumbwaiter. He pushed a lever on the inside of the dumbwaiter’s compartment. The box began to sink down.

“It comes back up with the requested ingredients, which are examined by the client, then weighed and packaged. Payment is made at the counter.”

“Who works downstairs?” asked Harry, examining the dumbwaiter now with interest.

“Trained monkeys,” said Severus blandly.

Harry turned to stare at Snape. 

“You’re having me on,” he said after a moment.

“Of course I’m having you on, you imbecile,” said Severus. “I use interns, Potter. Interns! Human beings. Human beings who can _read_ in fact. Monkeys, as you may not be aware, cannot.”

“I know monkeys can’t read,” said Harry, scowling. “So what do you do, then?”

“What do I do?” Severus sat down on the chair opposite Harry. Harry nodded. “I am the proprietor of this business. I handle the finances, the purchasing and oversee the personnel. On occasion I go on an expedition for rare ingredients for resale and use in my specialty potions. I also oversee the brewing.” He stared at Harry almost curiously. “And what is it that _you_ do, Mr. Potter?”

“I’m an Auror,” answered Harry, frowning at Snape. Did the man think he worked at McWizard’s Burgers with these robes?

“And I’m a Potions Master, yet you asked me the same question,” he answered. “So, just what is it that an Auror does actually?” Snape was eying him curiously. He looked like he really wanted an answer to that question.

“I get assigned to cases. I interview witnesses and examine crime scenes. I go on stake-outs. But mainly, I file reports.” Harry shrugged. He liked his job, despite the reports.

“Sounds like an exciting life.”

“It works for me.”

They stared at each other for a moment then, as if by mutual agreement, reached for their books.

“Let’s decide what we’re going to write about,” said Harry, checking his syllabus. 

“We are to choose a category corresponding to one of our vocabulary units,” said Severus, scanning his own document. “We have covered six so far—family, shopping, vacation, careers, social life and modern technology.”

“Well, I guess we can eliminate modern technology,” said Harry, using a Muggle ballpoint pen to cross that item off the list. “How about family? I can be the son telling you I’m planning to get married. You can be the father—”

“No. We will _not_ be playing father and son.” His tone brooked no argument.

“Well then…how about a couple planning our honeymoon? We can cover family, social life and vacation with that one.”

If looks could kill, Harry would be hanging from the gallows. “No?”

“No.”

“Well, if you won’t play my father, why not play my lover?”

Severus glared at Harry then studied his own list again. “We will play a shop clerk and a customer.”

Harry looked up at Snape. “That’s boring. We need to come up with something original, or funny. Preferably both.”

“We need to come up with something that uses the appropriate grammar and vocabulary then present it clearly with perfect pronunciation,” countered Severus. “It need not be funny.”

Harry sighed and shook his head. “Let’s just agree on the scenario, then. Shop clerk and customer is fine with me. I’ll work to add in some humor as we go. I assume you’re the clerk and I’m the customer?”

Severus stared at him. Oops. Wrong.

“No, _you_ are the bumbling clerk and I am the patient and eventually exasperated customer. There’s your humor.” Harry rather liked the self-satisfied smile on Snape’s face.

“Alright,” agreed Harry. He could definitely do bumbling. “What type of shop? How about a chemist?”

Severus glared at Harry again. Harry was going to get a complex. He felt as if he were fourteen again and on the receiving end of his potions professor’s malice. “And what will I be attempting to purchase, Mr. Potter? Condoms and lube?” He delivered the statement with arms folded across his chest, looking both comfortable and in command in the wooden chair. His voice was absolutely dripping with sarcasm.

“Headache remedy and dandruff shampoo?” suggested Harry, managing, but only just, not to ask Snape his brand preference in lubes. What was wrong with him? Why was his mind wandering down these dangerous paths just because Snape mentioned the words condom and lube? He gave a small smile as Snape intensified his glare. “Alright, Alright. How about a bookseller? Can’t get into too much trouble there, can we?”

“A bookseller will be…adequate,” said Snape. Harry thought that Snape would be a very intimidating clerk. Children would fly away in terror if he caught them touching a book with grubby hands or leaving it open and face-down on a table. He would certainly prevent their access to books of questionable content. He imagined Snape as the librarian at Hogwarts. And he had thought Madam Pince formidable! A brief image of Snape with librarian’s glasses on a chain around his neck nearly made him snort, but he managed to push away the image and focus back on the Snape sitting across from him.

“Good. So—do you want to practice our current unit first or start on our oral presentation dialogue?” He opened his textbook as he spoke and thumbed through to the bookmark he’d placed there on Thursday during class. “I could use some help with these stem-changing verbs.” _Smooth,_ he told himself, pleased with how casually he had introduced that question. _Ask for his help first—remember what Hermione said._

Snape gave a long-suffering sigh and opened his textbook. They spent the next thirty minutes reviewing preterit tense verb-conjugations. 

“No, it’s d _u_ rmió. The “o” changes to “u” in the third person singular and plural only. Now use it in a sentence.”

“Harry se durmió en la clase de Profesor Snape,” said Harry. 

Snape rolled his eyes. “You would never have _dared_ to fall asleep in my Potions class, Potter. I would have added you to a nearby cauldron without any more provocation than that.”

Harry smothered a smile. Now that he thought of it, he’d never known anyone to fall asleep during Potions. There was more snoring in History of Magic than in the sixth-year boys’ dorm, but in Potions? Never.

Next, Harry ran through some pronunciation routines with Snape. He opened his book to the vocabulary list at the back of the third chapter and had Snape repeat each word in turn after he modeled it.

“Zapatos.”

“Za-pay-toes.”

“No, it’s ‘ah,’ not ‘ay.’ Try it again. Za-pah-tos.”

“Za-pah-toes.”

“Better. But you need to clip the ‘s.’ It’s more like a hiss than a slide into a gentle ‘z.’ Think of the word ‘toss’ but use a long but clipped ‘oh.’”

“A slide into a gentle ‘z’? Where did you learn this terminology?” asked Severus crossly. He was paging through the appendices at the end of the book looking for something to help him with pronunciation other than a Harry Potter.

Harry shrugged. “It’s not in the book. I _listen_ to Sra. Arruda. You think too much about it. You’re looking for rules and such and you should just let it come naturally. Let your senses process it, not your brain.” 

“My _senses,_ not my _brain_? And they are somehow not related?” Snape glared at Harry and closed his book. “Let’s get on with this.”

Harry glanced at the list in his book. He could not believe how much fun he was having pulling Snape’s chain. They went through a page of words in this “clothing” chapter, from calcetines (socks) to camisetas (t-shirts) to chaquetas (jackets) to calzoncillos (boxer shorts).

“¿De qué color son los calzoncillos de Dumbledore?” asked Harry suddenly.

“¿De qué color son los…what the fuck?” Snape had started to repeat the sentence and midway through realized that Harry was asking him for the color of Dumbledore’s boxer shorts.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Harry innocently. “Did he wear briefs?”

Snape stared at him. Harry stared back.

“I wouldn’t know,” said Snape. 

They stared at each other another few seconds before Harry cracked a smile.

“I bet they were turquoise,” he said. “With gold embroidered moons and stars.”

“I rather think he went commando, traditional wizard that he was,” said Snape with a smile that was somewhere between painful and fond.

“Traditional wizards don’t wear underwear?” asked Harry. Well _that_ was intriguing. Until he thought of the Wizengamot. The look on his face changed. He looked like he had stepped in cow manure. Snape sneered. Harry thought he might be trying to smile.

Harry looked down at his list again. He’d fallen into that one so naturally that he’d almost forgotten Albus Dumbledore’s final moments and the part he and Snape had played in them. All these years later, the mere thought of how those eyes sparkled could tie a knot in his gut.

It was fortuitous at that awkward moment that the telephone rang.

As Harry’s head came up and snapped around, looking for the source of the incongruous sound, Snape ignored it altogether.

“Go on,” he said, gesturing to the book. “Let’s move on to the next chapter list.”

“Aren’t you going to answer that?” asked Harry. He’d identified the sound now as coming from Snape’s robe pocket.

“No,” answered Snape.

Harry stared at him. He found himself doing that a lot today. He had to ask. He couldn’t help it. It was just so…so…impossible! “You have a mobile phone? Here?”

“Perhaps I should drill you on preterit conjugations,” Snape said. “Morir. To die. Yo?”

“Morí,” answered Harry automatically. “I died. I suppose that one isn’t used in conversation too often.”

“Right. Because no one survives the killing curse.”

They stared at each other, then Severus moved on.

“Tú?” He gave Harry the next subject pronoun—you—and Harry continued to conjugate the verb.

“Moriste.”

“Ella?”

“Murió. Come on Snape. A mobile? Do you even know any Muggles?”

“Nosotros.”

“Morimos. Honestly, Severus. Are you selling ingredients to Muggles? No—I know. Buying—you’re buying from Muggles. That makes sense.”

Snape ignored him completely. “Vosotros?”

“Moristeis.”

“Ellos?”

“Murieron.” Harry sighed and gave up. Snape was obviously not going to tell him why he kept a mobile telephone in the pocket on his wizarding robes. Instead, they were going to conjugate the verb ‘to die’ in the past tense. How fitting.

They continued through another three verbs—dormir, pedir and servir—and, an hour into their study session, had just begun to revisit their presentation dialogue when someone began to rap sharply on the shop door.

“Severus! Open up. We need to talk.”

“Ignore it,” said Snape as Harry’s head whipped sideways to the door. He recognized that whiny, petulant voice. “I propose we call the shop ‘Volumes of Knowledge.’ I shall have to look up the phrase as I’m not quite sure how to translate it….”

“Severus! Open this door or I’m going to Apparate directly inside!”

“I’d like to see you try,” muttered Snape. 

“How about ‘Pages?’” suggested Harry with another sideways look at the shop door. “’Páginas.’”

“Adequate,” said Snape. “We can use it now and find something more creative later.”

“This is your last chance. I know you’re in there.”

“Wards,” said Snape smoothly as the building shook slightly and a crash was heard outside. “He really should know better.”

“What does Malfoy want?” asked Harry, no longer able to pretend that Draco Malfoy wasn’t trying to get into the shop to see Severus.

"I don’t know,” answered Snape. “The last time I let him in he stripped off his clothes and stretched out face down over this table while I was in the backroom getting tea.”

“Ewww.” Harry pushed his chair back away from the table instinctively and wiped his hands on his robe. Snape shook his head and sighed deeply. “Wait—Malfoy’s married. He just had a baby.” He stared at Snape suspiciously. “You’re having me on.”

Snape gave up working on the dialogue. “Why I am sharing this with you, I do not know.” The banging began again on the door. Malfoy wasn’t giving up. “Malfoy is queer. _And_ he is married. _And_ he is a father. Indeed, the three are not often found in a single package but as the only son and heir, he had no other option. He has an heir, his wife has a life of comfort and his child has a set of doting grandparents.” He stood up. “And for some reason, he has me in his sights. I should never have given in to him the first time.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” said Harry, standing up and following Severus to the door. “Given in to him? What? You and _Malfoy_?”

Severus ignored him. He walked to the door, flung it open and stepped back as Malfoy, silk robes and walking cane and all, fell into the room and hit the floor. Hard.

Harry stepped back too but even so was only a foot or two from Malfoy’s head when the other man crashed and fell. His boots, and the bottom of his robes, had to be the first things that Malfoy saw when he opened his eyes.

“What…?” 

Malfoy scrambled to his feet, hopping as he sorted out one knee, his ivory-headed serpent cane dangling uselessly from one hand. He stared at Harry, who had automatically unholstered his wand and assumed the classic defensive pose—somehow managing not to look too defensive at all. He actually managed to look casual, as if he were accustomed to hanging out in Snape’s Potion shop on Saturday afternoons.

“Potter….” Malfoy whirled to face Snape and winced as his knee twisted. “What’s he doing here, Sev?” he whined. “Are you in some sort of trouble? Is there anything Father can do to help out? You know our resources are at your disposal….”

“Potter is my guest, Draco. My guest. And you are interrupting.”

“Interrupting?” Malfoy’s gaze slid over to Harry again. Harry casually lowered his wand and tucked it away in its holster.

“Yes. Interrupting. We were engaged in an activity and your… _arrival_ …interrupted us. What do you want?” Snape folded his arms, easily managing to look completely unapproachable. Malfoy, however, did not seem at all deterred.

“You didn’t answer your mobile. I was worried.” He smiled smugly. He had regained his composure and had even managed to sound accusatory.

Snape glanced over at Harry.

“I think I’ll get going,” said Harry, turning to gather his books up from the desk. “I have…uh…dinner. With Ron and Hermione. And the baby.” He directed that last word at Malfoy.

“What about _our_ dinner plans?” asked Snape suddenly. “Have you forgotten that you promised to take me to that Italian restaurant you’ve been raving about?”

Harry nearly dropped his books. He was glad his back was turned as he had to forcibly shut his mouth, which had dropped open so far that his jaw popped. He stacked up his books and turned around slowly, taking a deep breath. What the hell was Snape up to?

“Was that tonight?” he said. He gathered up his books and held them against his chest like a school girl hurrying to her next class.

“Of course it was tonight. Or did you mean to put me off again for your friends?” Snape raised an eyebrow. Draco stared from Snape to Harry, a scowl on his face.

“Wait. Today’s Saturday.” Harry smiled weakly. “I thought it was Sunday. Working the weekend has really put me off with the calendar.” He glanced over at Draco and advanced the game a step.

“What’s he doing here anyway? I thought you said you were through with him.”

Now Snape’s eyebrows shot up and his mouth dropped open. He hurriedly closed it.

“Obviously, he was just leaving.”

“Why does he have your mobile number?” accused Harry.

“You are _not_ dating Potter.” Malfoy laughed. “Good try, Severus.” He laughed again, completely and utterly the ferret Harry always thought he was. “He’s not even gay.”

“What do you mean I’m not gay?” said Harry, cutting in before Snape could say anything else. “At least I’m not married—to a woman.”

“That’s none of your business, Potter,” said Malfoy dismissively. He turned to Severus. “Listen, Astoria and the baby are in France for a month with her parents. I’m having a little Slytherin reunion at the Manor.”

“No.” This time it was Harry. Damn if he’d let Malfoy, the little prick, tell him _he_ wasn’t gay. “We have plans.”

“You don’t even know when it is,” said Malfoy, “so can it, Potter.”

Snape looked like he was tired of playing games, and certainly tired of the current pissing match. “Out, Draco. Harry, Mr. Malfoy has soured my mood. We can dine another time.”

“Tonight is fine,” said Harry obstinately. “I’ll pick you up at six.” He strode over to Snape confidently and, transferring the books to one hand, wrapped the other around the back of Snape’s neck and pulled him down into a kiss.

_Play along,_ he begged Snape mentally as his lips found Snape’s and pressed against them. Snape let out a surprised puff of air as Harry’s mouth covered his. They could have played it safe, stopped with a casual brush and a fond smile, but no. Snape pressed his own mouth back against Harry, and holy shit, swiped the tip of his tongue against the seam of Harry’s mouth. Harry grunted and his mouth opened, pulling in Severus’ tongue without a second thought. Snape’s tongue moved inside his mouth, rolling on his own tongue, sliding across and along his gums, tickling the roof of his mouth while all the while his lips pressed roughly against Harry’s. Harry’s head swam as his cock stirred. Breathe. He had to breathe.

He pulled away with a quiet gasp and, recovering quickly, pressed a long, gentle kiss to the corner of Snape’s mouth and relaxed his hand, which was tangled in Snape’s hair.

Snape’s soft hair. Soft long hair that hung halfway down his back now. He forced himself to let go instead of running his hand back up through that silky hair to the base of Snape’s neck.

“Six?” said Harry, making as if to turn toward the door.

“You think I’m letting you go after that?” snarled Snape. He turned to Malfoy. “OUT!” He brandished his wand and Malfoy gave Harry one last, malevolent look and backed out, staring at Snape suspiciously the whole time. Snape slammed the door in his face and glanced at Harry then turned away, walking back toward the table. He adjusted his robes as he walked.

“That was hardly necessary,” he said as he took his seat. He leaned back. “Hardly necessary yet quite effective.”

“You started it,” said Harry. He lowered the books, hoping Snape didn’t notice his hard-on. Where had _that_ come from? This was Snape. _Snape!_ He didn’t get hard with Snape—even after kisses…like that. 

“I may have insinuated that we were dating….”

“ _May_ have insinuated?” Harry dropped his books unceremoniously on the table. “Really, Snape? Is he that hard to get rid of?”

Snape sighed. “Yes. It _is_ that hard to get rid of him.” He opened his book. “Never mind. If you see him again, inform him we are no longer ‘together.’ With luck, perhaps he’ll hit on you instead of me.”

“Oh great.”

Harry opened his own book to the chapter on shopping. They worked quietly for a few more minutes, then Harry ran his hand over the polished top of the expensive table.

“This table?” he asked.

Snape looked up at him. “Forget I told you that.”

“You didn’t—not on the table…?”

“What did I just say?” Snape snapped.

Harry rolled his eyes. As if he could _ever_ get that image out of his head. All that white skin. It would be blinding—like looking at an eclipse!

By the time Harry left an hour later, they had the outline of their presentation worked out. Harry thought it rather dry but decided to play it safe with Snape. After all, he had nearly molested the man earlier to make a point with Malfoy. He hadn’t exactly expected to get kissed back—especially not that kind of kiss. The kind of kiss you exchange when you’ve been out dancing and grinding together and need to get into a room _fast_. 

The kind of kiss that curled your toes.

He nodded at Snape as he left.

“Adiós. Hasta luego.”

“Adiós, Señor Potter,” Snape said to his back as he walked out the door.

Harry turned and flashed a quick smile at Severus. He could have sworn Severus was checking out his arse.

~*~

Tuesday in class, Severus and Harry were once again Fidel and Inocencio.

Sra. Arruda paired the rest of the students up for their oral presentations and allowed the groups to work together for the last twenty minutes of class. Dolores scowled at Harry when he pulled his desk over to face Severus’. She actually walked over to Severus, bent down and said something into Snape’s ear that Harry could hear perfectly well.

“We’ll spend plenty of time together on Easter Island, Lover Boy?” said Harry under his breath when she had returned to her partner.

Snape glared at him. “I do not recall the ‘Lover Boy’ part,” he said.

Harry shrugged. He batted his eyelashes at Snape. He would never ever have guessed that it would be so fun to tease Snape.

“So, I’m the clerk at the bookseller, eh? I need a name. How about Señor Sonriente?”

“Sonriente?” Severus picked up the small paperback Spanish/English dictionary he brought to every class and thumbed through it. “Mr. Smiley?” He shook his head. “You are an idiot, Potter.”

“Hey, I like it. And you can be Sr. Largonariz.” Snape reached for the dictionary again. “It’s not a word,” cautioned Harry. “It’s two words. Largo and nariz.”

“Ah. Nariz is nose,” said Snape. He scowled at Harry, looking displeased. “Very funny.”

“Largo means long, not large,” explained Harry. “Mr. Long Nose.”

“Then you can be Señor…..” Snape picked up the dictionary and paged through it, jotted something down and turned a few more pages. “Cicatriz-cabeza.”

“Head…what’s cicatriz?” Harry grabbed the dictionary and found the word. “Ha ha. Very funny. Scar-head. You know, it’s ‘Cabeza de cicatriz” in Spanish. Modifiers generally follow the noun.”

Snape grabbed the dictionary out of his hands. “You will be Sr. Rodriguez. I will be Sr. Pareda. I will be attempting to purchase a book about Easter Island. You will constantly misunderstand me and point me in the wrong direction.”

“Right. For example, when you describe ‘las cabezas gigantes,’ I can think you said “calabazas gigantes.’ That means giant pumpkins. The word for pumpkins is similar to the word for head.”

“That’s actually quite clever,” said Snape, looking surprised. “Cabezas and calabazas. You’ll have to come up with more words like that.” He glanced over at Sra. Arruda, who was leaning over Enrique’s desk, one of her ample breasts squished against his shoulder. Severus shuddered. 

“Yeah, she’ll be impressed,” said Harry, understanding why Snape had looked at the instructor. “But why do I have to do all the hard work? It’s not exactly easy to find words like that, you know.”

“Quit complaining. I will make sure our dialogue is grammatically perfect. Just do not give me any words with the double R.”

“Like barrio?” teased Harry, trilling the ‘r’ expertly on his tongue. 

“Stop it. That is not helping,” said Severus.

“I’m just surprised is all,” said Harry. He looked around the room then leaned forward a fraction and continued in a whisper. “It makes no sense that you can’t roll your r’s since you can do so much else with that tongue.”

“Lengua,” chirped Sra. Arruda from behind Harry, where she had suddenly appeared as if in Apparation. “Clase, repita. Len-gua.”

“Lengua,” repeated the class. They sounded collectively bored.

“Lengua means ‘language’ as well as ‘tongue,’” explained the teacher. “Hablo tres lenguas pero solamente tengo una lengua.”

Harry had nearly jumped out of his skin when Sra. Arruda spoke behind him. He grinned as she moved away. “You know, I think I could work with you on that trill—teach you to roll those ‘r’s like a rrrregular Madrileño.” 

“Stop it.” Snape checked the clock on the wall. “Son las ocho,” he said. Though his pronunciation had improved somewhat, he still sounded as if he were reading lines from a script when he spoke.

“I swear you have a stick up your arse, Snape,” said Harry. “Or should I say down your throat? You speak like you’re terrified of making a mistake. You’ve got to let yourself loose.”

“What? Did I make an error? I think not. It is eight o’clock. Which is precisely what I said—in grammatically perfect Castellano.”

“You said it like a robot. ‘It is eight o’clock,’” he parodied. “Come on, Severus. You have to get comfortable with it. It’s like putting on your jeans when you get home after a long day of work.”

Snape stared at him. Hard. Harry suddenly realized he had called the man Severus.

“Would you prefer Fidel?” he asked. “Or Sev?”

Snape’s look darkened. “Severus is fine,” he said primly, adding, almost as an afterthought, and acting very much as if the word left a bad taste in his mouth, “Harry.” He looked at Harry sharply. “And I do not put on jeans after work.”

Harry smiled. “I suppose I could have guessed that,” he said. He looked around. Everyone else was packing up their books and pushing the desks back into place. “You’ll be better at pronunciation if you relax more. Just don’t _think_ about it so much.”

“Ah. Now I understand why you’re so good at this,” said Severus. He stood up and moved his desk back into place. “Failure to think before you act. One of the outstanding characteristics of your childhood.”

“I’d rather not talk about my childhood,” said Harry. He tried to sound casual but knew he hadn’t kept the hurt out of his voice completely. He shook it off, however, bade adiós to Sra. Arruda—who was sitting next to Dolores now, looking slightly pained as the older woman showed her photographs of a previous vacation to Cuba—and followed Severus down the corridor and out onto the London street. When they reached the Leaky Cauldron a few minutes later, Harry turned toward the Floo as he always did while Severus headed toward Diagon Alley. The pub was busy tonight, comfortably warm in the early Spring chill. The rumble of voices was low and welcoming.

Harry, struck with the sudden desire to stay awhile and have a pint, turned around.

“Severus—” 

Severus paused and turned.

“Have a pint with me?”

He thought for a moment that Snape would consent, but after giving Harry a long look, Snape shook his head. “I’ve work waiting for me at home. Perhaps another time.”

He continued on his way and Harry shrugged and pulled out a chair at the bar, oddly disappointed.

~*~

Harry was on assignment all weekend and missed the work time he and Severus had set up after class on Thursday. He knew by Friday afternoon that he’d be out of London and sent an owl with his apologies. When, by Tuesday morning, he realized that this stakeout could not possibly be over in time for Spanish class, he felt a stab of annoyance. There was no way to let Sra. Arruda know he’d be gone—he couldn’t dash out of a stakeout to find a pay phone, and unlike Snape, he didn’t carry around a mobile.

The entire thing blew up on Wednesday. A junior Auror on the case with them tripped one of their prey’s detection wards and they all ended up in a free for all of fists and wands. It was messy and dirty and poorly executed after their painstaking work, but in the end they hauled off all three suspects and no one was severely hurt.

Harry, however, broke his nose. Again.

The nose was quickly set and healed at St. Mungo’s, but the two black eyes it caused were still veritable shiners when he showed up in class on Thursday night.

“¡Sr. Lovegood—Inocencio!” exclaimed Sra. Arruda. “Pobrecito. ¿Qué pasó?” 

Harry had slipped into his chair, which was positioned in the circle even though he hadn’t been there five minutes ago when class began. Harry glanced up and saw all eyes on him, including Severus’. He attempted a smile.

“Un accidente,” he answered. He pointed at his eyes with two fingers. “Dos ojos negros.”

“Se dice ‘ojo morado’ en castellano,” explained Sra. Arruda. “Which literally translates as ‘purple eye’ instead of ‘black eye.’” She smiled then waved at the class. “Clase, repita—o-ho morado.” She stressed the pronunciation of the word for ‘eye.’

“Ojo morado,” repeated the class. Harry noticed that Severus did not join them.

“Pub brawl?” called out David. Harry hated David.

“Fell off my br…bike,” explained Harry. Merlin’s balls. He had almost said broom! “Broke my nose.”

“Your nose doesn’t look broken,” said David.

Harry glared at him. “It happened nearly a week ago,” he said. “It’s healing.”

“Harry rompió la nariz,” said Sra. Arruda, breaking in before the two students could start brawling. “¿Te duele mucho?”

Harry looked at her in confusion. Duele? 

“Si te duele mucho, debes poner el hielo en la nariz.” She looked at him again. “Hielo? Ice. Clase, repita. Hielo.”

“Hielo,” repeated the class. This time Severus’ lips moved too. 

The entire class period that day was devoted to open questions posed from one student to the other to learn more about each other’s lives.

Which did not bode well for either Severus or Harry…Fidel or Inocencio.

“¿Cuántos hermanos tienes?” Enrique asked Harry. 

How many brothers and sisters? Harry frowned. “Tengo cinco hermanos y dos hermanas,” he answered. Five brothers, two sisters. Who was to know the Weasleys and Hermione weren’t really related to him?—except for Severus, of course.

“¡Qué familia grande!” commented Sra. Arruda.

Dolores was on Severus like black on a cauldron. “¿Tienes hijos?” she asked. Harry scoffed. Children? How would he answer this one?

“No. Mi hijo está muerto.” 

Silence. Snape had just said his child was dead. _That_ shut everyone up. Harry wasn’t sure that he’s used the correct verb for “is.” “Estar” was used to denote temporary conditions and dead was not exactly a temporary condition. Except….

“¡Qué lástima,” whispered Sra. Arruda. She looked like she was going to cry. 

Score one for Snape. He looked sadly at his desk and scored even more pity points from the instructor.

Harry next revealed that his “deporte favorito” was “fútbol.” Severus admitted that he liked fried eggs for breakfast. Harry couldn’t ever remember being served fried eggs for breakfast at Hogwarts. He knew Snape didn’t know how to say “scrambled eggs” or “poached eggs” and had chosen “fried” because they had learned that word in the previous unit. ‘Papas fritas’—fried potatoes, or chips.

Harry had to admit he was having fun. The pace was fast, the questions easy and just a bit embarrassing. 

“Mi color favorito es morado,” said Snape a few minutes later.

What? Purple? Snape’s favorite color was purple? 

Dolores smiled dreamily. Rosa snickered.

Snape held his ground. “It’s a lovely color,” he said. “Deep violet. Why are you laughing?”

“It’s a bit feminine, isn’t it?” asked Dolores, making pretty eyes at him.

“Un poco femenino,” repeated Sra. Arruda automatically. She wasn’t paying a lot of attention to the class now, focused as she was on this interesting conversation, and the class repeated the phrase half-heartedly and out of sync with each other.

“Purple symbolizes royalty and magic,” answered Severus haughtily. 

Dolores finally shut up. She revealed that her favorite color was pink. Harry wasn’t surprised.

At the end of class, he slipped out to wait in the corridor for Severus as he always did. Severus wasn’t long in coming tonight, and Harry got in step beside him and they made their way out onto the street without starting up a conversation.

“I see you made it back in one piece—almost,” Snape said at last. “When did your nose get broken?”

“Yesterday,” said Harry. “The junior Auror on the case with us bungled the stake-out and it turned into a free-for-all.”

“I read about it in the paper this morning,” said Severus. “Those eyes are going to get worse before they get better.”

“Oh, I’ve had worse,” said Harry offhandedly. He really wasn’t worried too much about his eyes. “Did you get my owl?”

“I did,” answered Snape. “Thank you. It was considerate of you to send it and let me know. Our project is due in three weeks. We should reschedule—are you on assignment again this weekend?”

“No, I’m clear. How about tomorrow night?”

It was out before he thought twice about it. He’d asked Snape on a study date on a Friday night. Well, it didn’t appear that Snape had other romantic entanglements at the time. Wait. Other? This was _not_ a romantic entanglement, most decidedly not. No matter how much he’d been thinking of that kiss from last week—no, not last week. Nearly two weeks ago now. The kiss to piss off Draco Malfoy that had done nothing but make him want to piss off Malfoy again. And again.

“Harry?”

“Oh—yeah. Sorry. What did you say?”

“I am free tomorrow evening. Where would you like to meet?”

“Why don’t we meet at the Leaky Cauldron for dinner and a pint or two then stay to work?” suggested Harry. “Give Malfoy something to talk about? I can get Hannah to hold a private table for us.”

“It would give more than Malfoy something to talk about,” said Snape. 

“Do you mind?” asked Harry. “They all talk about me all the time anyway. I don’t pay much attention to it anymore.”

“Nor do I,” agreed Snape. “I keep the shop open late on Fridays. I can meet you at seven.”

“Good.” They had arrived at the Leaky Cauldron already and nodded to each other as they parted. Harry watched Severus move through the archway into Diagon Alley then went to the bar to talk to Hannah.

Hannah Abbot, now married to Neville, was the new proprietress of the Leaky Cauldron. Harry found her not behind the bar but back in the kitchen. She was icing a layer cake and looked up as Harry stuck his head in.

“Harry!” she exclaimed in greeting. She narrowed her eyes, staring at his face. “What happened to your eyes?”

“Broke my nose on duty,” he explained. “Hannah, listen—can I have a private room tomorrow, say seven o’clock?”

She looked at him oddly. “You mean upstairs?”

“Oh, no. Sorry. No. Not at all.” He blushed. “I mean for dinner. I’m working on a project with Snape and he agreed to meet me here for dinner and a pint or two. I just want someplace out of the hustle and bustle is all.”

“So you have some privacy, or so no one sees you out with Snape?” she asked, smiling as she continued to frost the cake.

“A little of both,” he replied easily.

“So you’re dating him now,” she asked. She was patting the top of the cake now with the spatula, making little hills of frosting rise up.

“No,” he answered, somehow feeling that he wasn’t quite telling the truth. “We’re in a class together. Kind of hard to explain.” He trailed off. “Will everyone assume we’re dating—if they see us out together here?”

Hannah paused and smiled over at Harry. “You really are oblivious, aren’t you? You’ve been coming into the Leaky twice a week with Snape for a month. You missed last Tuesday. All you do is walk through—you to the Public Floo and him to Diagon Alley—yet everyone knows and the rumors are flying. Doesn’t help that Malfoy was in her prattling on about how you two tried to make him believe you’re dating by engaging in some tongue play.” She picked up the finished cake and carried it to the cold box. “Be careful of Malfoy, Harry. He’s petty and vindictive and downright mean. I’ve seen him parade a long string of men through here—before and after he married Astoria. Word has it that he’s had his sights on Snape for some time now.”

“And what does his wife have to say about all this?” asked Harry. He still couldn’t get his brain around the fact that Draco had a wife and child at home yet was publicly getting into the pants of a number of male wizards.

“Would you want to be married to Draco Malfoy? Astoria’s probably thrilled-privately. She’s given birth to the Malfoy heir and now she can go on and enjoy life.” She squeezed Harry’s arm. “I’ll get you two an out-of-the-way table tomorrow night, Harry. Seven, right?”

“Seven. Yeah. Thanks, Hannah.” Harry worked his way back through the restaurant toward the Public Floo. What was he playing at, anyway? He liked Snape. He was intrigued by him. He liked his sarcasm, his snark, even his perfectionism and the way he exaggerated each Spanish language word he pronounced. He liked his shop, the sparseness of it, the same mastery in business that Snape had exhibited in his brewing, in his spying. And he’d liked kissing him. A lot. He wouldn’t mind doing that again, but he doubted that Snape was going to throw him up against the wall in the loo outside the Spanish classroom. Why was he being so flaky? If it were anyone else, Harry would have asked them out already. Gone to dinner. Engaged in some mutual physical exploration. But with Snape, he felt so young. Inexperienced. A bumbling teenager instead of an experienced Auror. Like it was Snape who should be asking him out instead of him asking Snape. Snape would always be suspicious of him, of his intents. They were carrying too much baggage. Too much water under the bridge.

Except…except not. Except the way Snape looked at him sometimes. No. _Severus._ The way _Severus_ looked at him. Like he was something unexpected—something he thought he had figured out long ago but that somehow surprised him. Like he was disassembling and reassembling Harry, putting together someone different than he thought he knew. And Harry—he was surprising even himself. The way he’d fallen so easily into the charade when Malfoy showed up at the shop. The way he’d returned that kiss. It may have started out as a charade but it certainly hadn’t finished as one. Or had it? What was to prevent anyone from enjoying a kiss, no matter how it was intended?

As he Floo’d out to Grimmauld Place, he really didn’t have any answers to his questions. He only knew that he was getting a hell of a lot more out of Spanish class than he ever would have expected.

~*~

Dinner started out a right disaster.

Hannah tried—she really did. She put them at a private table enclosed in a three-sided booth at the back of the remodeled pub. The problem was that they had to walk back through the rest of the tables to get there, and it was Friday night. No matter that they were carrying their Spanish workbooks and their dictionaries, which should have made it clear that they were here to work. Snape himself had several people greet him, all of them politely and professionally. One well-dressed man, seated alone at a table near the front, stood and shook his hand and beamed at Harry when Severus introduced him. Hmm. He’d had _that_ reaction before and it hadn’t sat well with Severus then. Harry sometimes forgot what a small world the Magical one was, especially here in London, the center of political and social wizarding life in Great Britain. 

He groaned, however, when George Weasley waved his hand at them from the bar. Harry waved back, but George got up and half-staggered over. Great. George was not a quiet drunk. 

“Hey, Harry!” He put his arm around Harry’s neck and gave him a sloppy man-hug. “And Snape! I heard you and Harry were stomping around together.”

“We’re in a class together, George,” explained Harry patiently. “We’re working on a project.”

“A project, eh?” said George. He extended his hand to Snape, who looked at it as if it were a dead fish then shook it quickly and released it. “Snape. Haven’t seen you since you moved up to the high rent district. How’s business?”

“Mr. Weasley,” said Snape. “Business is fine. I assume you are still filling up students’ book bags with illicit contraband materials?”

George blinked, processing the question. He smiled. “Never use a one-syllable word when two three-syllable ones are available,” he said to Harry. 

Harry patted him on the shoulder and pointed him back to the bar. “We’re hungry, George. Later.”

A couple of his Auror friends were sitting together at a table a bit further back, but they let him pass with minimal interference. Passing Rita Skeeter however, seated with the new Mr. Skeeter, was sheer bad luck.

Mr. Skeeter was the former Ludo Bagman. It wasn’t exactly common in the wizarding world for a man to take his wife’s surname, but Ludo wasn’t exactly conventional and he _was_ exactly an opportunist. Ludo had maintained an unhealthy fascination with Harry since the days of the Triwizard Tournament, although how he was able to break his eyes away from his wife’s three-inch long, blood-red fingernails Harry did not know.

“Harry! Harry Potter!” Ludo stood up and extended a meaty hand toward Harry. Harry cringed as his hand was enveloped in the sweaty flesh. 

“Ludo. Rita.” Harry nodded to each, a polite smile on his face. He might not be exactly friendly when it came to members of the press and burnt-out Quidditch stars like Ludo, but he was never deliberately rude. 

Ludo was now staring at Severus. Severus was staring right back at him. Harry could almost hear the rusty gears in Ludo’s brain churning as he tried to figure out what the two were doing here together. 

Severus simply nodded, his eyes as sharp and calculating as Rita’s. Harry thought Severus could definitely hold his own against Rita—probably squash her like the stink bug she was. They made it only two steps when a voice stopped them.

“Severus!”

Harry winced. No. Not here. Not in front of Rita Skeeter. He took a deep breath and turned his head. Yes. No mistake about it. Draco Malfoy, dressed in skin-tight Muggle jeans with form-fitting robes buttoned to the waist then flaring open below, was approaching them, dragging someone along by the hand.

Harry glanced quickly at Severus. He had the disgusted look one gets on their face when they realize they’ve stepped in dog droppings.

“Mr. Malfoy!” boomed Ludo, looking extremely pleased to see Draco.

“Well, Mr. Malfoy, isn’t this a pleasant coincidence.” Skeeter’s voice was honey and ice. An odd combination. She extended her fat-fingered, manicured hand to Draco, who took it and pressed a kiss to it. Harry nearly gagged. He’d rather lick a blast-ended skrewt than kiss Rita Skeeter’s hand.

“Ah, yes.” Draco yanked the man standing behind him forward, and Harry was surprised to realize that his companion was Oliver Wood. 

“Oliver,” he said in surprise. Wood was still riding high in his professional Quidditch career with the Winborne Wasps, Ludo’s old team. He looked a bit worse for wear, with a prominent bump in his nose and one eye that was not quite in focus. It kept wandering off to the side before Wood would pull it back center with a force of will.

“Harry.” For some reason, Wood looked relieved to see him. He looked at the others. “Professor Snape,” he said, surprised. “And Mr. Bagman—an honor, sir, a real honor.”

“It’s Skeeter now, son,” said Ludo, pumping Wood’s hand enthusiastically. “Mr. Ludo Skeeter.”

Draco ignored both of the Skeeters.

“Are you and Harry having dinner, Severus? Perhaps Oliver and I can join you—make it a double date?”

“Date?” A smile uncurled itself on Rita’s face. She pulled a purple-plumed quill from her robe pocket and grabbed Ludo’s used napkin. “Do tell,” she said, looking at Harry. “You and the former Headmaster are dating?”

Harry opened his mouth to deny it then quickly closed it. Draco. Severus had told Draco that they were dating. And they had kissed—in front of him. He glanced at Severus, hoping Severus would step in and salvage this.

Severus tried.

“The status of our relationship—be it business, a platonic acquaintance or something more—is our business, not yours, and not the wizarding world’s. Right now we’d like to find our table and order dinner—in private.” He turned to Draco. “Another time, Mr. Malfoy. Mr. Potter and I have business to discuss tonight. It would bore you and your companion to tears, I’m afraid.”

“If the status of your relationship was so private, Severus, you wouldn’t have devoured Harry’s face in front of me a couple weeks ago. And if I’m not mistaken—and I rarely am—what I saw was a lover’s kiss, not the kiss of mere ‘acquaintances.’”

Both Ludo and Oliver were staring at Harry now, mouths agape.

“Snape?” mouthed Oliver.

“Oh, this is fabulous. Simply fabulous,” spouted Skeeter. “Our two war heroes, together at last.”

Harry fought with the warring voices in his head. One wanted to scream out “We are NOT together” while the other wanted to take Severus’ arm and say, “He’s taking my name when we get married.” Fortunately, Severus retained his cool. He reached out, took Harry’s arm and led him quickly away.

“No interviews,” he said as a parting shot.

Fortunately, no one followed them. They settled into their private cubicle, and Harry held out his hand and motioned to a passing waitress.

“Selma—Firewhisky. Straight.”

Severus held up two fingers.

She smiled and hurried away, leaving two menus on the table.

“This is out of control,” said Severus. He looked at Harry and sighed. “I apologize for dragging you into this.”

Harry returned the sigh, but followed it with a comfortable grin. “Look, no harm done, right? Everyone knows I date men. So I’m after you now—what harm is there in that?” He pulled his notebook with their dialogue work out from the bottom of the stack and looked over at Severus. “What?” Severus’ face was set in a scowl and he was shaking his head. “Wait—is it me? You don’t want people to think you’re dating Harry Potter?”

“Do you want people to believe you are dating Severus Snape?”

“I don’t care what people think,” said Harry. He toyed with his notebook. “I never really have.”

Severus took out his own notebook and picked up the Muggle ballpoint pen he carried with him now for use in class. “We should start working on this dialogue. We’ve done nothing of note yet—nothing but outline its content and discuss possible ridiculous scenarios.”

“Are you avoiding this? Why don’t you want people to think we’re going out? Am I that much worse than everyone else?”

Severus scowled even more. “I do not want you to pretend you are dating me. It could get…complicated.”

Harry acted almost instinctively. “Then why pretend?” he asked. He reached across the table and grasped Severus’ wrist lightly. Severus didn’t look at him or answer. Instead, he stared at his wrist, turning his head only when the waitress returned with their drinks and set them down in front of them.

“There you go boys. Know what you want from the kitchen yet?”

Harry had let go of Severus’ arm as soon as Selma brought the Firewhisky. “Not yet—give us a few more minutes.” Selma moved away, and Harry and Severus both picked up their glasses and tipped them back. Severus replaced his on the table first, regarding it thoughtfully. He turned it a quarter turn then looked up at Harry.

“What do you mean?” he said in a low voice. “What do you mean by ‘why pretend?’”

Harry paused, letting the Firewhisky give him the liquid courage he needed. It burned slightly in his throat, trickling down to warm his gut. He carefully placed his glass on the table before him and took a fortifying breath.

“What I mean is, why pretend? Why pretend that we’re dating just to keep Malfoy out of your hair? Why not just…date?” He picked up his glass and took another long sip while Severus toyed with his own glass, moving it fractionally, re-centering it on the cardboard coaster.

“You want to date me?” he asked finally, looking up at Harry and scrutinizing him closely, as if trying to catch him in some elaborate ruse.

“Isn’t it obvious?” answered Harry. “Yes, I want to date you. I mean, getting together like this to work on our project is all fine and good, but if there’s any possibility I’ll get to kiss you again like that….”

“Oh, there’s certainly a possibility,” cut in Severus. He downed half of his FIrewhisky in a single swallow. 

“So you’ll give it a go?” asked Harry with a sincere smile.

Severus sighed and shook his head. “I vowed after Draco that I would never again date anyone I had taught.”

Harry, who had thought Severus was about to say yes, felt his hopes crash down.

“You dated Draco? I mean—you two went out together? I thought….”

Severus raised an eyebrow. “And precisely _what_ did you think?”

Harry scoffed. “You know what I thought.”

“What? That our liaison was purely physical? That we went to work on a project, got disgustingly intoxicated, then went back to my place where I proceeded to strip him naked, tie him to the bed and pound his arse into the mattress without even holding hands first?”

Harry fidgeted in his seat. That _was_ what he thought, in fact. Severus had told it with quite a bit more detail than he had imagined it, and he hated that his cock had taken such interest in the retelling, especially since it featured a naked Draco Malfoy.

“I will not go down that road again,” stated Severus, as if trying to convince himself of the fact. His voice had taken on a quiet tone. Harry looked up. He could tell Severus had been watching him closely. “In a moment of weakness, I gave in to him. He’d been pursuing me rather blatantly on and off for a year. He was becoming quite annoying. I treated him…not kindly.” He drained the rest of his Firewhisky then and signaled to the waitress, holding up two fingers again. “I was rough with him. I thought it would deter him.” He paused, frowning. “I was wrong.”

“Oh.” Harry didn’t know what to say. He dug the fingers of one hand into his thigh. He opened his menu and looked down at it. “Do you like it rough?” He hoped he sounded casual. _Just keeping the conversation going,_ he told himself. _Just making conversation._

There was a slight pause before Severus answered. Harry could feel Severus’ eyes on him.

“I like it rough on occasion,” Severus answered. Another pause. Harry looked up. “I like to please my partner. If _he_ likes it a bit rough, I am happy to comply.”

“Oh.” Harry swallowed, his brain fighting his cock. He needed to respond, to carry on the conversation like a mature adult, not like a sex-crazed teenager whose brain heard “a bit rough” and homed in on the phrase.

“I know what you mean,” Harry said. He managed to withhold the pant from his voice. “I don’t like to be forced into anything.” Severus looked up at him, eyes narrowed. _Why was he always doing that? _“Oh, don’t get me wrong,” Harry hurried to explain. “I’ll try nearly anything that sounds interesting or exciting.”__

__Now Severus looked intrigued. The smile on his face was slightly evil—no, perhaps more devious than evil._ _

__“Like what?” he said. He leaned back, relaxing in his seat as the waitress brought their drinks and took their dinner orders. Harry noted that Severus ordered very precisely, without ever opening his menu._ _

__“Oh, I don’t know,” said Harry after he took a drink of liquid courage. “Like sensory deprivation, some food play, light bondage.” He studied Severus’ face as he spoke, not feeling, at this moment, at all as mature as he wanted Severus to think he was. “We’re not getting much of our project done, are we?”_ _

__Severus stared at him a long moment. “No. No, we’re not,” he said. He reached for his notebook and opened it up in front of him, pushing his glass of Firewhisky forward to clear enough space for the book. He thumbed forward to their project page and scanned it. “I believe we decided that I would be Sr. Pareda, the clerk, and you would be Sr. Rodriguez, the customer.”_ _

__“No, I’m the clerk, you’re the customer. I’m hapless, remember?_ _

__“Customer—cliente,” said Severus. “Right. Quiero comprar un libro con información sobre Easter Island.”_ _

__“Isla de las Pascuas,” corrected Harry. “Remember? Sra. Arruda taught us that after Dolores showed us all those pictures from her sister’s trip.”_ _

__“Right,” said Severus, scribbling in his notebook. “So, I come into the shop and ask you for a book about Easter Island.” He jotted down more notes in his own book. “And then I say “Hay estatuas famosas allí. Son cabezas gigantes.”_ _

__“Wait a minute.” Harry wrote down the line and looked up at Severus when he was finished._ _

__“But then you repeat ‘¿Calabazas gigantes?’ which you said the other day means ‘giant pumpkins.’”_ _

__“And then you say “¡ _Cabezas_ gigantes, idiota!” said Harry._ _

__“Do you really think a client would call a sales clerk ‘idiota?’” Severus asked. “He wants help. He’s not likely to get help if he keeps insulting the clerk.”_ _

__“It needs to be entertaining too,” said Harry. “It doesn’t have to be realistic.” He smirked._ _

__“Well, how about a slightly less insulting word than ‘idiota.’ How about ‘cabeza de caca’?”_ _

__“Shithead?” said Harry. “How is that slightly _less_ insulting?”_ _

__“Tonto then,” said Severus. He folded his arms and stared at Harry. “What? It means silly. Or stupid. But a mild kind of stupid.”_ _

__“A mild kind of stupid?” repeated Harry. He jotted it down nonetheless. “Then I say, ‘No soy tonto. Y no tengo una cabeza gigante!”_ _

__Severus frowned._ _

__“It’s good banter,” insisted Harry. “Sra. Arruda will love the plays on words.”_ _

__“Light bondage?” asked Severus. The non-sequitur nearly made Harry’s mouth drop open._ _

__“Excuse me?”_ _

__“You said you have experimented in light bondage. I am interested in learning more.”_ _

__“We were talking about our dialogue. Our class project. I thought you didn’t want….”_ _

__“It has nothing to do with _wanting_ ,” said Severus. He closed his notebook and pushed it aside. “It has everything to do with being sensible, and learning from past mistakes. However, resolving not to act on every impulse does not preclude one from discussing one’s…proclivities.”_ _

__“Proclivities?” Harry looked at Severus suspiciously. Was Severus really this much of a talkative drunk? Two Firewhiskys and he closed his Spanish notebook in favor of discussing what Harry liked to get up to in bed, and that after declining his invitation to date on the grounds that he had resolved not to go out with his former students? “I wouldn’t call them proclivities, exactly.”_ _

__“What would you call them, then?”_ _

__The corner of Harry’s mouth began to turn up into a wry smile. “You’re interested in my _proclivities_ , aren’t you?”_ _

__“Interested?” Severus scoffed. “It is an interesting topic of conversation, I admit.”_ _

__“Most people call them kinks,” said Harry, speaking softly._ _

__“Fine, call them kinks then. A rather vulgar term, but apt.”_ _

__The waitress returned with their meals then, and Harry ordered another round of drinks. The arrival of the food sidetracked the conversation for a short time. The arrival and consumption of the third round of drinks shortly thereafter brought the topic back to the forefront. Severus was obviously losing his inhibitions rather quickly._ _

__“You are a bottom, naturally?” he asked without preamble. Harry choked on his chicken._ _

__“What do you mean, _naturally >/i>?” he asked, feeling affronted. It didn’t matter that he was. What mattered was that Severus automatically _assumed_ that he was.__ _

___“I am a top. I am only a top. If you are indeed homosexual or bisexual, you will already know that. And if, knowing that, you are interested in me, you are _naturally_ a bottom.”_ _ _

___Well, that was logic for you. How did Snape _know_ these things? Harry tried to glare at him but he knew he looked more intrigued than indignant._ _ _

___“So what if I like to bottom?” said Harry after a drawn-out moment. “You wouldn’t care if you weren’t interested in me.” Ha. He had him now._ _ _

___“I have already indicated that I _am_ interested in you. I have also indicated that I have no intention on acting on that interest. Acting would break a vow I made to myself—a vow I do not and cannot take lightly.” He tipped his glass and finished the rest of his drink. He looked slightly glassy-eyed but was still speaking quite plainly and coherently, if a little louder than normal. “I suppose it is your misfortune—and mine—that you did not happen upon me several years ago, while I was still unsullied by the Draco Malfoy experience.”_ _ _

___Harry, who had just put a forkful of potatoes into his mouth, nearly spat them out._ _ _

___“Unsullied by the Draco Malfoy experience?” he said with a snort. “Unsullied?”_ _ _

___Severus raised his eyebrows. “You would feel sullied too if you woke up next to him and thought the Bloody Baron had crawled into bed with you during the night.” He shuddered. “All that white skin. Ghastly.”_ _ _

___“Is sullied even a word?” asked Harry, as he cringed at the thought of waking up in bed next to Malfoy. “And don’t you mean ghostly?”_ _ _

___“Sullied is the antonym of unsullied, and yes, it is a word. As for your second question, I definitely meant ghastly.” He frowned._ _ _

___“Why did you start that thing with Draco the other day?”_ _ _

___“Why did you kiss me?”_ _ _

___“I kissed you because I wanted to. And because you gave me the perfect opportunity to do it. And I knew you wouldn’t be expecting it.”_ _ _

___“You liked it.”_ _ _

___“Of course I liked it you idiot….”_ _ _

___“Tonto. Not idiot.”_ _ _

___Harry shook his head in exasperation. “I liked it and so did you. And you _are_ being an idiot about this dating thing. The only thing I have in common with Malfoy is my age and a penis….”_ _ _

___“And an incredibly tight arse.”_ _ _

___“How do you know I have….” Harry trailed off, an unmistakable blush rising on his cheeks._ _ _

___“I didn’t know,” quipped Severus. “Until now, anyway. So, how tight…”_ _ _

___“We’re not _discussing_ this anymore!” exclaimed Harry. Several customers within earshot turned to look at him. “If you want to know how tight my arse is you can stick something up it!”_ _ _

___Silence._ _ _

___Severus was not the only one staring at him now._ _ _

____Shit!_ _ _ _

___He’d had too much to drink. So naturally, he smiled sheepishly at the two elderly witches staring at him, and ordered another round._ _ _

___Who would ever have guessed that Severus would turn out to be a loose-lipped drunk?_ _ _

___The dialogue,, which Harry insisted they work on knowing it would be far more entertaining than it would have been had they written it when Severus was sober, was completed before they left the restaurant. Harry made sure that he had the notebook in his stack of books, sure that Severus would destroy it if he took it. He didn’t claim to be sober—not by a long shot—and though his limbs felt heavy and his balance a bit off, he wasn’t the one spewing mild obscenities from his mouth and positing that Albus Dumbledore had had more than a platonic relationship with the Flamels and that Hagrid and a certain lady centaur…._ _ _

___Oddly, Severus didn’t seem any more likely to take him home and pound him into the mattress than he had when he first remembered his resolution earlier in the evening and resolved to abide by it. He had spent quite a bit of time discussing Harry’s “proclivities”—or trying to sort them out and apply his own brand of analysis to them. Harry found it more amusing than arousing, given Severus’ general drunken state, but even so, there was just something so—for want of better word— _naughty_ —about discussing what made one a bottom or a top. _ _ _

___When they finally stood, Severus, loose lips and all, didn’t seem at all as wobbly as Harry was. He made a beeline for the portal to Diagon Alley and Harry passed up the Floo and followed him. Severus didn’t seem to notice at first that Harry was hurrying along beside him as he strode into Diagon Alley, wobbling only slightly as he stepped down off the curb._ _ _

___“So, do you believe in topping from the bottom?” asked Harry when Severus had finally acknowledged him with a sigh and a deliberate slowing down of his pace. “Do you think it’s possible, I mean?”_ _ _

___“I _always_ top when I bottom,” said Severus haughtily._ _ _

___Then he burped._ _ _

___And Harry giggled._ _ _

___He didn’t exactly giggle like a school girl, and he didn’t cover his face with his hand, but the sound, following Severus’ undignified burp, was startling._ _ _

___“It was a burp, not flatus. Nothing to laugh about,” said Severus primly._ _ _

___“You said flatus!” said Harry. He snorted._ _ _

___“You find that humorous?”_ _ _

___“Right now I do, yes,” said Harry. He was laughing so hard now that he stopped and leaned against a brick wall, holding his side._ _ _

___“I can see the front page of _The Daily Prophet_ tomorrow,” quipped Severus. He was beginning to slur his words a bit. His ‘page’ rhymed with ‘beige.’ “Severus Snape burps near Boy-Who-Lived. Boy-Who-Lived is Not Amused.”_ _ _

___“Oh, I’m amused all right,” said Harry, trying to catch his breath. He wiped tears out of his eyes. “I never ever thought I’d hear you burp. Ever.”_ _ _

___“If it amuses you so much, I could do it again.”_ _ _

___“No, thank you,” said Harry, a stupid smile on his face as he looked up at Severus. They were midway down the block, a good distance from the nearest street light, but he could see Severus’ face in the shadows. Severus stared back at him, returning, for a moment, the smile. _That_ smile. The kind of smile where the heart begins to show behind the eyes. He took a step forward, toward Harry, then another._ _ _

___Harry’s arms came up—it was the most natural of gestures—and circled Severus’ neck as Severus pressed up against him, lowered his head and with the lightest of growls, as if releasing just a small bit of what he was holding back, kissed Harry. His mouth moved on Harry’s, claiming it with lips and tongue and nips of teeth as Harry opened his own mouth to him, melted back into the wall as Severus pressed harder against him. There was no question that Severus was aroused, no question that Harry was as well. Severus deepened the kiss, in control of it as he hadn’t been that first time, moving his mouth to Harry’s jaw, to his neck, as Harry groaned and pressed harder against him._ _ _

___“Take me home with you,” said Harry._ _ _

___“Can’t,” said Severus softly, even as he pressed into Harry, cock hard against Harry’s hip. He kept kissing him, though, and Harry, disappointed, nonetheless realized that he didn’t want their first time—if they ever got one—to be like this. He wanted Severus fully aware of what he was doing, and with whom._ _ _

___“Can’t?” said Harry when they had relaxed, leaning against each other still, wrapped in each other’s arms. “Or won’t?”_ _ _

___“Can’t. Won’t,” said Severus. “Want to.”_ _ _

___Harry nodded into his shoulder. “Alright.” He’d work on this. One didn’t have first dates like this without things progressing eventually. “You need help home?”_ _ _

___Severus shook his head. “You can Apparate?”_ _ _

___Harry nodded. “Yeah, but I’ll Floo back from the Leaky.” He pulled away slightly and pressed a last kiss to Severus’ mouth. “See you Tuesday, then.”_ _ _

___Without another word, without looking back at Severus, he turned and walked away. He knew Severus wouldn’t follow him, but he had an idea he’d hear from him before Tuesday._ _ _

_____ _

~*~

Rita Skeeter had a field day with them.

The kind of field day that had your friends knocking on your door at the ungodly hour of nine o’clock in the morning.

“Have you seen this?” Ron stuck _The Daily Prophet_ under his nose. 

Of course he hadn’t seen it. He was obviously still in bed and wasn’t wearing his glasses. He groaned out a “Go ‘way, Ron,” and rolled back over.

“Really, Harry. You want to see this. It’s…well, she somehow got interviews with both Draco and Ginny. It’s…damn it! Get out of bed!” He pulled the covers off of Harry, leaving him lying there totally naked, morning wood and all.

“Jeez! I didn’t need to see that. Get dressed! I’m going to go make you some breakfast and then we’re talking.”

Fifteen minutes later, Harry stumbled downstairs and plopped onto his favorite chair at the kitchen table. Ron had piled toast on a plate and set out butter and jam. He poured tea into Harry’s mug.

“This is it? Toast?” Harry slid a piece onto his plate and spooned a blob of jam onto it. He folded it in half and took a bite. He blinked sleep out of his eyes as he stared down at the paper.

“Not even the front page? I’m slipping,” he said, quickly scanning the articles in front of him.

“Huh.” Ron reached over and grabbed the front page. Underneath was the Wizarding Features section. “There. Read it and weep. It has Mum so overcome with romantic fervor that she’s planning your bridal shower.”

“My bridal shower?” said Harry, except it came out more as “Muh brahda sowr?” since he had a mouthful of toast.

“Yes, your bridal shower you dolt! Read it—she’s made you out to be a pair of lovebirds feathering your nest.”

“Love birds?” Harry had swallowed his toast and grabbed the paper. 

“The Boy Who Lived and the Spy Who Loved Him” was emblazoned in huge letters across the top of the paper.

Harry looked over at Ron.

“Don’t try to deny it. George saw you. He said you were chummy.”

“Chummy….” Harry was reading the article now, shaking his head slowly. “I don’t remember him getting down on one knee and professing his undying love to me.”

“No? How about the roses then?”

“No, definitely no roses.” He read on. “And no white doves dropping them on our table either.” He read some more. “Nope. No fluttering yellow butterflies lighting on our ebony hair.”

“But you were there—and you were at a secluded table?”

“We were working on our collaborative Spanish project,” explained Harry without looking up. He snorted. “This is funny—it says we ordered a truffle cake for dessert and fed it to each other.”

“This is disgusting romantic drivel, Harry! Why are you taking this so well? You’re not…not….” He stared at Harry, a mixture of horror and disbelief on his face.

“Not what?” Harry’s gaze narrowed as he watched Ron’s face go through some acrobatic contortions. “Ron! Do you think this is true?” He tossed the paper down. “Severus and I went to dinner together. We worked on our project. There were no declarations of love, no roses, no doves, no butterflies and no string quartet playing classical music at our table. We had dinner. We ate.”

“You drank. A lot. I can tell by looking at you. And George said…”

“George was drunker when I got there than I was when I left. He’s not exactly a trustworthy source.”

“Well, what about this interview with Malfoy?” Ron pointed to an article further down the page.

“Can I finish my tea first? Please?”

“Yeah—go ahead. I’ll read it aloud to you while you sit there and sip your tea.” Ron cleared his throat. “’He’s got a thing for Potter—he always has. And Potter—well, you know how it is. Orphaned? Never had a father of his own?”

“That’s enough,” sighed Harry. He took another piece of toast off the stack and dropped a blob of jam on it. “You said something about Ginny? How did they get to her? She wasn’t there, was she?” He mentally stepped backward through his evening and couldn’t place Ginny in it at all. 

“Nah, she wasn’t there. Skeeter and Bagman ran into Ginny and Romilda while they were headed back to _The Prophet_. It was pure coincidence.”

“More like fate,” sighed Harry.

“Whatever. So Skeeter told Ginny that you and Snape were having a romantic dinner at the Leaky Cauldron and Ginny says ‘Really? A, romantic dinner at the _Leaky Cauldron_? She’s thinking that there are a ton of other places you’d be if you wanted to have a romantic dinner.”

“Wait—this is all in the paper?” Harry started scanning the article.

“No, you dolt. I talked to Ginny this morning after the paper came out.” He rolled his eyes, clearly both amused and annoyed at how obtuse Harry was being. “Anyway, Ginny knew you were interested in Snape, of course—no wait. Let me finish.” He stared down Harry’s attempt to interject a protest. “And Bagman pops in and says ‘Oh yes, Snape even led him by the hand to their table.’ And Skeeter says something like ‘He was devouring him with his eyes.’ Then she turns to Ginny and asks her how a man as handsome and charming and rich and personable and famous and sexy as you—hey! Those were her words, not mine—do you think I’d call you sexy?” Again, he squelched down Harry’s attempt to interject a protest. “Well, how a man like you could like a greasy snarky man of questionable character like Snape.”

“So that’s what this is about then,” said Harry. He had been staring at Ron then scanning the paper alternately. Now he turned back to the paper. “Ginny, knowing I like Severus—I mean _thinking_ I like _Snape_ —rises up to defend him.”

“Yeah, awfully gooey and sickening, isn’t it?” said Ron with a sigh. 

“What’s Hermione got to say about it all?” Harry asked. He paged through the rest of the paper but didn’t see much else except the usual retelling of how he killed Voldemort and how Severus escaped from death after being nearly decapitated by Nagini. There was also a short article about Harry’s previous “paramours” and one about Severus’ Potions business.

“Hermione?” Ron grinned. “She says the Leaky Cauldron is an atrocious place for a first date.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be a date,” explained Harry then, at the look on Ron’s face, gave up. “OK, it wasn’t _supposed_ to be a date but it sort of turned into one. Severus made some stupid promise to himself never to date any more of his former students and—”

“Wait. Any _more_ of his former students? Who—?”

“Malfoy,” cut in Harry.

“Ewwww,” said Ron, scrunching up his face. “And you’re still interested in someone with such obvious bad taste?”

“Shove it, Ron,” said Harry. He knew Ron was kidding, but he was tired and slightly hung over, and all he had to eat for breakfast was jam and toast.

“So Snape made this promise—but he went out with you anyway. Everything all nice and tidy then?”

Harry folded a third piece of toast in half, took a bite from the folded side, then opened it to reveal the nearly perfectly centered circle. 

“Not exactly,” admitted Harry. “We went to the Leaky Cauldron for dinner and to work on our class project. We ran into Skeeter and Ludo Bagman on the way to our table and while we were stuck there, Malfoy came over towing Oliver Wood behind him. He suggested we sit with them—make it a double date. So of course Skeeter asked if we were dating.” He shook his head. “What could I say? Severus had already told Malfoy we were together to get him to leave him alone. So Severus tried telling her that it was none of her business but Malfoy piped in that he’d seen us kiss, and that we kissed like lovers, not acquaintances.”

“Wait wait wait! Malfoy saw you kiss? What have I missed?”

So Harry backed up and filled Ron in. Ron whistled. He really wasn’t obtuse when it came down to it.

“So Snape’s got the hots for you, and you’ve got it for him, and he’s being obstinate because he let his resolve down with Malfoy and got burned by it and thinks it won’t work out with you because he’s too old or you’re too young and he’ll hurt you or you’ll hurt him. And he’s pretending to be with you to get Malfoy out of his hair but the whole thing is backfiring because you ran into Skeeter and Malfoy at the same time. That cover it?”

Harry was staring wide-eyed at Ron. “Uh, yeah? I think?”

“But he wants you.” Harry had always thought that Ron would be the last one in the world to give him relationship advice.

“Yeah.” Harry half-smiled. “He wants me. And I want him.”

“And you’re worried about this for some reason?” Ron asked. “You’ll wear him down, Harry.”

“I know. I’m just not used to….”

“Waiting?” said Ron.

Harry stared at his best friend. When had Ron become so damn perceptive? He nodded quickly, embarrassed.

“You might have met your match in Snape, Harry. It’s been a few years since you’ve really had to work for what you wanted, hasn’t it?” He smiled at Harry. “Hey—don’t get me wrong. You had to work plenty hard for a long time. You deserved a couple years of getting what you wanted—well, _who_ you wanted, anyway. But maybe this will be more rewarding—when you finally get him.”

“I wanted Ginny,” Harry said, a bit petulantly. “I didn’t get her.”

“She did you a favor, mate. You got every guy you wanted after she left you. And if you were still with her, you wouldn’t be chasing after Snape.”

Harry jerked his head up.

“No, I wouldn’t be, would I?”

Ron grinned. “Go back to bed, Harry. I’ll tell Mum you’ll be around later to fill her in on your love life. She’s asking lots of questions. It’s been a few years since she’s had a wedding to plan and she’s already talking about invitations.”

“Wedding?” Harry let his head fall forward onto the table. “Invitations? Get me a hangover potion,” he begged.

Ron ruffled his hair as he walked past Harry toward the door.

~*~

Severus sent an owl on Sunday, informing Harry—not asking him—that they would get together after work on Monday to study and work on their project. He didn’t mention _The Daily Prophet_ article but he suggested that they work at Grimmauld Place this time.

Harry agreed by return owl and said he was usually home by six.

When he returned home after work on Monday it was six-thirty, and Severus Snape was sitting at the table in the kitchen drinking coffee. His Spanish books, dictionary and notebook were spread out on the table and Harry’s were stacked up across from him. Harry, out of breath, skidded to a halt in the doorway and Severus looked up.

“You are late.”

“I’m late a lot. Had to finish a report. Kreacher let you in?”

“Of course Kreacher let me in. He also made me some excellent coffee and fetched your books. He promised shepherd’s pie for dinner.” 

“I love his shepherd’s pie.” Harry began to unbutton his Auror robes as he walked over to the chair across from Severus. Severus looked up.

“What are you doing?” he asked suspiciously.

“Getting ready to ravish you,” said Harry as he continued to undo the buttons.

Severus rolled his eyes. Harry grinned and dropped his robes over the back of the chair and sat down.

“Have you looked at your notebook since our ill-fated meeting on Friday?” Severus asked. He was scanning his notes with an odd look on his face.

“Ill-fated? You didn’t enjoy yourself?”

Severus looked up. “Please tell me you did see _The Prophet_ on Saturday.”

“Oh, I saw it.” Harry opened his own notebook and paged forward. “In fact, Ginny took me out to Le Maison de Robert for dinner last night to apologize for talking to Skeeter ….” His voice trailed off. He was staring at his notebook. He laughed. Severus was looking at him, lips pressed together as if trying to suppress a smile.

“Yours too, hmm?”

“You mean this dialogue? I remember working on it Friday night for a while, but this?” Harry grinned, then ran his finger along a line of dialogue, reading it out loud. “Si mi cabeza es una calabaza, mi pene es un pepino.”

“Pene?” asked Severus.

“Penis. It says ‘If my head is a pumpkin then my penis is a cucumber. At least I think that’s what pepino means—it was in our ‘food’ chapter. I hope it doesn’t mean pencil, given the context.”

“It means cucumber. How about this one?” He glanced at Harry then read a line from his notebook out loud, still pronouncing each word carefully, exaggerating the lip movements. “Favor de no sacar la cabeza ni los brazos fuera de la ventana.”

“Please don’t stick your head or arms out the window?” Harry laughed again. “That’s printed under the windows on Muggle buses and trains. Did I write that one or did you?”

Severus glanced at the paper. “You did. Your penmanship is not quite so refined as my own.”

“Refined? You mean not quite so spiky.”

“Legible, then.”

Harry grinned and Severus continued.

“I believe we should throw most of this questionable effort out and start afresh. What do you think?”

“And miss using this?” Harry read aloud, “Me gusta llevar calzoncillos en la cabeza.”

“Calzoncillos?” asked Severus, puzzled.

“Underpants.”

“That one is definitely yours,” said Severus. “Because I, for one, do not like to wear my pants on my head.”

“Do I look like I do?” asked Harry with mock indignation.

Severus blinked slowly. “Perhaps,” he said. He smiled and shook his head as he turned to a blank page in his notebook. “Alright, let’s start again. From the top, Sr. Rodriguez.”

They worked together companionably and at the end of an hour had put together a decent new draft of a dialogue, using some of the more acceptable lines from the previous one. Sitting across from Severus like this, engaged in what was—and felt like—homework, Harry was able to be productive without thinking too much about the kiss—those kisses, about Severus’ arms around him, about the feel of the bricks in his back and Severus’ hard cock pressed against him. But when they pushed aside their books and started into the shepherd’s pie that Kreacher served on a polished silver platter, the over-dinner conversation drifted away from Spanish and bookseller’s clerks and hapless customers, and into a more personal realm. And Harry realized then that despite the amount of time they had spent together over the past weeks, they had never really had this sort of conversation before.

A conversation that led away from the quick quips and not-so-subdued snarkiness. That led from discussions of their respective professions to visions of the future. They touched on their mutual dislike of the current Minister and their mutual respect for the current Headmaster at Hogwarts. Severus mentioned friends and associates, other business owners in Diagon Alley, a retail association they had formed and the social interactions that came from it. Harry told how he still maintained close connections to the Weasleys, his family for the past fifteen years, and how much he enjoyed being godfather to Teddy Lupin and uncle to the growing number of Weasley grandchildren.

“So you really want this job with the International Crime Division?” asked Severus. They had finished dinner and moved into the old drawing room upstairs, where Kreacher served them coffee and a more-than-adequate tiramisu. 

“Yeah, I do,” answered Harry. “I don’t want to be standing between safety and someone else’s wand the rest of my life. I mean—it’s acceptable now. I’m young. No one is depending on me back home, right? And I like the job most of the time.” He looked pensive. “But the job with the ICD involves a lot of research, and diplomacy—a cultural awareness too. I think it will challenge me, but I think I’d be good at it too.” He shrugged. “There’s not much chance I’ll get in yet—most of the positions go to people in their thirties and older—but I have to start somewhere and learning a language is the first step.”

“Is there field combat involved?” Severus was eating his dessert rather meticulously, forking off narrow slivers and eating them thoughtfully. Harry noted that he was extremely neat and precise as he ate, working on the cake as if it were a mathematical problem he was trying to solve.

“Sometimes. The Aurors provide most of the on-the-ground support. ICD operatives have to maintain their field certifications but they don’t see a lot of direct combat.” He thought of something, toyed with the thought in his head before voicing it. “I’m not afraid of combat,” he said. “That’s not why I’m thinking about this move.”

“Afraid of combat?” Severus looked up sharply, a narrow rectangle of layered cake still on his fork. “I would never have assumed that. Not of you.”

A compliment? Harry smiled as he looked at his own plate. He wasn’t afraid. Not of dark wizards, or putting himself between his friends and danger, or of facing his problems. And this—this thing with Severus—was a problem.

“We need to discuss our relationship,” he said, putting down his fork.

Severus hand, which had been lifting a morsel of cake to his mouth, froze. He looked at Harry, narrowed his eyes. “Our relationship? I thought I was clear on that.”

“Clear?” Harry laughed. “Oh yeah, you were perfectly clear. You don’t date anyone who was your student. You only pretend to date them. And sometimes you kiss them—but that’s not _dating_ if you’re only pretending to date them, right?”

“Your logic…”

“Is solid,” finished Harry. “And yours is weak. You can’t have it both ways, Severus. You made a promise to yourself and you’re regretting it.” He stopped, looked uncertain. “You _are_ regretting it, aren’t you?”

“Yes. I am regretting it,” admitted Severus. He was looking at Harry rather suspiciously.

“Then admit you made a mistake and we can get this relationship going,” said Harry. He folded his arms and stared at Severus.

Severus stared back at him. Harry was perfectly aware that Severus admitting he had made a mistake was akin to Hermione admitting she was wrong about the enslavement of the house elves.

“I made the commitment to myself after a particularly egregious episode. It has led to a number of complications that have plagued me since the incident in question.”

“Geez, do you think that has more to do with how old Draco was and the fact that he was your student, or with the fact that’s he’s an insufferable twit without a drop of moral fibre?”

Severus didn’t answer. He frowned and took a drink of coffee.

“I know you hate being wrong….”

“This does not make me wrong.”

“Alright—I know that changing your mind feels like going back on your word, even though doing it might be the best decision you ever make in your life.”

Severus looked up. He was staring at Harry now with a calculating look.

“Better than not coming back to Hogwarts after I recovered?”

“Definitely.”

“Better than agreeing to come to Hogwarts in the first place?”

“Well, that did save my life,” said Harry with a smile. “So it pretty much was a requirement for us being here now.”

Severus looked up at Harry now, challenging him. “Better than agreeing to end Albus’ life?”

Harry shook his head. “I can’t answer that one, Severus.” He stood up then knelt on the floor in front of Severus, scooting in between his knees and taking the plate and cup from him and setting it on the side table. He took one of Severus’ hands. “Let’s just say _one_ of the best decisions of your life and leave it at that.”

Severus shifted in his chair. His knees pressed in tighter against Harry as Harry laced their hands together. “We could play the cat and mouse game for a long time and I think I’d wear you down eventually, but that would be going about it all wrong. That’s how Draco did it.” He kissed their clasped knuckles. “You have to decide. No more of this foreplay if it’s not going anywhere.” He kissed another knuckle. The thighs around him tightened. He released Severus’ hand and took off his glasses, dropped them on the side table and cupped Severus’ face in his hands.

“Fuck Malfoy,” muttered Severus a second later as he kissed Harry for the third time, both hands working down to cup his arse and pull Harry tightly against him. “Insufferable twit that he is,” he muttered as he moved his mouth to Harry’s neck, his hands to the small of his back. Harry worked his own hands around Severus, kneading the flesh of his back, dropping them lower to press between the chair and Severus’ arse. Merlin how he wanted to feel that cock in his hand, cup those bollocks in his palm, taste them with his mouth. His own cock was nearly throbbing now, well pleased with how this relationship was progressing. Severus’ mouth latched on to that spot on his neck just above the juncture with his shoulder and Harry shuddered, fingers digging into Severus’ hips through his robes. His other hand worked upward, over Severus’ neck, into his hair, as Severus pressed a line of kisses back up his neck, along his jaw line, then worked his lips once again over Harry’s mouth.

“Master Harry Potter sir.”

The gravelly voice of Kreacher drifted into the room from the doorway.

“Kreacher, I’m busy,” Harry managed to gasp out as Severus buried his head in the crook of his neck and bit lightly on the flesh there.

“Mister Draco Malfoy is quite insistent that he speak with you, Master.” Kreacher bowed his head as he spoke, obviously anticipating Harry’s reaction.

“Interrupting something?” Draco Malfoy’s distinctive voice shattered the mood. Harry groaned and Severus sighed. No no no. This was not happening. Draco Malfoy was _not_ inside his home!

“Yes. Obviously,” answered Severus as Harry struggled up to his feet and turned to face his uninvited and unwelcome visitor.

“You didn’t answer your phone again,” said Malfoy to Severus, ignoring Harry.

“I didn’t hear it ring and wouldn’t have answered had I heard it,” said Severus. “So, unless you are here to inform me that your father has died and named me his heir, remove yourself. Now.”

Draco sat down in a rather prim looking formal settee and crossed his legs.

“What’s he got that I don’t have?” he asked in a petulant voice, nodding brusquely at Harry. 

“What are you doing here, Malfoy?” asked Harry, turning to face him. He glared at Malfoy as his former classmate’s eyes drifted downward from his face and focused on his obvious erection.

“Looks like I got here just on time,” Malfoy said with an exaggerated leer. “Fancy a threesome, you two?”

“I’d have a threesome with Umbridge and Filch before I’d include you,” said Harry.

“Filch can’t suck cock like I do,” said Malfoy.

“And you would know this because…?” asked Harry while Severus held his head, staring at his own lap, and shaking his head as if willing Harry not to ask.

Malfoy just smiled smugly.

“No. No. Get out of here. That’s…that’s just…wrong!”

“I didn’t say I sucked _him_ off, did I?” he asked. He tried to grin at Severus who was only half visible behind Harry. “Come on—you know you want it. I’ll even let you fuck me, Potter, while Severus fucks you.”

Harry, not a prude by any means, felt his mouth drop open. Anger welled up from within him.

“Out. Now.” His wand was in his hand, pointing at Malfoy, and he’d taken several steps toward the little ferret, the ferret who was still sitting on the settee, bouncing his leg and looking amused, when he heard Severus behind him.

“Allow me. Please.”

He felt Severus’ hand squeeze his shoulder lightly, reassuringly, and he instinctively stepped aside.

Severus’ wand tip was at Draco’s throat an instant later.

“Would you agree, Mr. Malfoy, that I have become a trustworthy citizen of the magical world over the past years?”

Draco was beginning to look worried.

“Severus…come on now….”

“Am I considered trustworthy, Mr. Malfoy?”

“Of course you are, Severus. But what…?”

Severus cut him off. “People believe what I say then? They trust my word?”

“They do. What does this have to do with any—?”

Severus pressed his wand tip harder against the pale throat. “So, if I announced to the world that you were blackmailing me, or perhaps cast some doubt about the paternity of your son, or let it slip that your parents brought you to me as an infant to create a potion to remove that pesky third nipple…?”

“What? I don’t have…didn’t have…three….” He trailed off as Severus took a step back and pocketed his wand.

“Would people believe me, Mr. Malfoy?”

Draco stared at him. He nodded once, quickly, a scowl on his face.

“They would trust me, would they not? The ones that matter, anyway. They would believe my word before yours because I have worked hard—” he was punctuating each word—“to reestablish myself, to operate above the law, to be a contributing, productive member of society while you…YOU!...have tried to ride on the already tarnished name of the Malfoy family and have done nothing but sink further into an abyss of perversion, gluttony and greed!”

They stared at each other.

“Well, Mr. Malfoy? You acknowledge that I would be believed?”

Another nod, reluctant, angry.

“Get out of here. I won’t reveal any of your dirty little secrets unless you come within my sights again. Stay away from me. Stay away from Mr. Potter. And if you want a threesome, go have at it with Dolores Umbridge and Argus Filch!”

“But…but I don’t get it. Why Potter? Why not me?” Harry, still reeling from Severus’ speech, could not believe that Malfoy wasn’t running out of the place with his tail between his legs. 

“Because you, Mr. Malfoy have no integrity. And Mr. Potter has integrity in spades. And unlike you, he can kiss. His tongue doesn’t feel like a dead herring in my mouth. His breath doesn’t smell like the insole of my boot. His teeth are not wearing fuzzy little sweaters. He does not drool on himself. He….”

“Alright. I get it. He’s got a bigger cock than I do!” He was backing away, one eye on Severus’ wand, one hand behind him feeling for the doorway. 

“Mr. Malfoy, _everyone_ has a bigger cock than you do. Even Dolores Umbridge.”

Malfoy hissed and, with a last malevolent glance at Harry, was gone. Harry had collapsed back into a loveseat, head in his hands, laughing. Severus dropped down next to him and Harry leaned against him.

“I think that was too easy,” he said.

“It was. I do not think we have heard the last of Mr. Malfoy,” responded Severus.

“It was also a major mood killer,” sighed Harry, wrapping one arm around Severus. “Did he really have three nipples?”

Severus chuckled. “Possibly. The Malfoys do keep marrying their cousins.”

Harry smiled and yawned.

“Indeed,” said Severus. “Since we both have to be at work early tomorrow morning, I suggest we call it a night. You are off work this weekend?”

Harry let himself snuggle into Severus’ side a bit more. “Yeah, I am. I’m not even on-call.” He once again worked his fingers through Severus.’ “Do you want to have dinner Friday? Maybe go back to your place after?”

“I would like that very much,” Severus answered. They sat together for a few more minutes, then Harry kissed Severus one last time and stood, pulling Severus to his feet after him. Severus kissed him goodbye before Apparating home from the front vestibule and Harry walked slowly upstairs, feeling like a teenager who had just had his first kiss.

First kiss.

Cho Chang. The Room of Requirement. He remembered describing it to Ron and Hermione, remembered the tears she had shed.

Wet.

He ran a finger over his lips now.

Severus Snape was indeed no Cho Chang.

~*~

Thursday during Spanish class, Harry thought he saw someone peeking in through the glass window in the classroom door. Someone familiar. He caught Severus’ eye, but Severus was too intent on transcribing every syllable Sra. Arruda uttered to pay any attention to him.

The head appeared again, then darted away. Was that Oliver? Oliver Wood? Harry thought he caught a glimpse of cobalt blue robes. No. There was no way Oliver would come to a Muggle building in the middle of London wearing his Quidditch robes, was there?

Class was almost over anyway, and he lingered inside with Severus after it ended, watching the door for any sign of wizarding life in the hallway. Severus was reviewing irregular formal commands with Sra. Arruda, and Harry, the only other person left in the room now, wandered out into the corridor.

Oliver Wood was waiting there, standing quietly in the recess next to the drinking fountain. As Harry had feared, he was wearing his bright blue Quidditch robes. Thankfully, he wasn’t carrying his broom. At first, he pretended he hadn’t seen Harry.

“Oliver!” hissed Harry, eyes darting around the empty passageway. “What are you doing here?”

Oliver looked up. “Oh—Harry. Where’s Snape?”

Harry narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Why are you here? Did Malfoy put you up to something?”

“Malfoy?” Oliver seemed genuinely confused. Almost too confused, Harry thought.

“Snape!” Oliver called out to Severus, who had just walked out of the classroom behind Sra. Arruda. She smiled and waved at the men and hurried away with a friendly “¡Hasta luego!” 

“Wood.” Severus’ voice was cold. “What are you doing here?”

“I brought you and Harry tickets to my next Quidditch game, compliments of the team.” He held out an envelope and opened it. Severus reached toward the envelope but Harry beat him to it. Taking it from Oliver, he reached into it to check the date and the opponent, touching the cardboard just as Severus yelled out “Harry, no!”

The tug of the Portkey surprised him. Had he had time to think, he would have thought “Oliver? Really?” but instead he hurtled through space, pulled by the invisible, inexplicable tug of the Portkey until he landed, on his feet but tottering, on something very hard and very narrow. He barely had time to comprehend that he’d come down, precariously unbalanced, on the top of a garden wall when he lost his fight to stay upright and toppled over the side.

It was a long way down.

The landing was hard, even with the feathers.

Feathers? Harry lay there, breath knocked out of him. A long white feather drifted down and landed on his stomach.

Fuck if he hadn’t landed on a peacock.

The pain in his ankles was just beginning to register when someone shouted _“Stupefy!”_

~*~

“Why did it have to be you?”

Harry was still lying in the garden, an uncomfortable lump under his back. But that discomfort was totally overshadowed by the spiking pain in both legs. He knew now that he’d broken his ankles when he’d fallen off the wall. Why wasn’t he screaming? Or at least moaning?

“I sent him for Severus. I knew that if I could only get him alone, I could make him understand. He’s the only one—the only one!—who understands what I need.”

Malfoy. Malfoy was here, somewhere close, and was prattling on in a pathetically sad and confused voice. Harry tried to open his eyes. Nothing. Damn it. Malfoy must have used a _Petrificus_ on him too. He convinced himself of that. It was a better alternative to being paralyzed from the top of his head down.

“I just want to be loved. That’s all. Is that too much to ask? I just want someone to take care of me, to be in _control_. Someone besides Astoria. My mum—she was the ice queen. My father was a fucking Death Eater. I had nannies. I couldn’t get dirty. I had everything I wanted and didn’t have to work for anything, never had to lift my finger. I never once felt hungry. And you—you had it all, didn’t you? You got to experience life like I never did.”

What the hell?

Malfoy sounded drunk. “And now you’ve done it. You’ve killed one of his prize peacocks. What am I going to tell him? That I was trying to bring Severus here to talk some sense into him and I got Potter instead? That the Portkey malfunctioned and landed him on the wall and he fell off and smashed old Parvell?”

Sharp spikes of pain were shooting up Harry’s legs. He hoped the breaks were simple. He had a date tomorrow night with Severus and didn’t want to spend it in St. Mungo’s. 

“It could have been me! I could have been the Boy-Who-Lived! The Dark Lord could have come after me instead of you. But oh no! Draco Malfoy wasn’t good enough for the Dark Lord! I lay calmly sleeping in my mahogany crib while he AK’d _you!_ It’s not fair! It’s never been fair!”

Draco was crying now, blubbering really. So loud that Harry almost missed the _Stupefy_ voiced from somewhere behind Malfoy.

_Finite Incantatem!_

Harry was released from the _Petrificus Totalis_ and promptly grunted in pain, biting his bottom lip to keep from screaming. He opened his eyes to find Severus dropping to his knees beside him.

“That idiot needs a one-way ticket to a psychiatric ward,” Severus said as he reached underneath Harry and removed the uncomfortable lump, which turned out to be an expired white peacock.

“Un pavo real blanco,” muttered Harry. “Muerto.” 

“Your right leg is broken above the ankle,” said Severus, immobilizing it with a quick spell and starting to examine the other as Harry squeezed his eyes shut and pretended stabs of fire were not shooting up his legs. “As is your left,” he sighed. He immobilized the left leg and sat back on his ankles, studying Harry’s face. He pushed hair back out of Harry’s face. “Did you hit your head too?”

“No, don’t think so,” said Harry. “Fell off the wall. Portkey landed me up there.” He pointed above him, looking up as he did so. The wall seemed impossibly high.

“Idiot can’t make a Portkey correctly either,” said Severus. Harry liked this Snape. Snarky as ever, in control of the situation, not panicking. Calm and direct. “You are obviously in pain. I need to get you to St. Mungo’s.”

“What about Malfoy?” asked Harry as Severus helped maneuver him into a seated position, both legs now stabilized with a spell.

“Oh, of course. I’ll take him first and come back for you. What was I thinking?”

“Ha,” said Harry, “You know what I mean.”

Severus was gathering Harry up in his arms, getting ready to Apparate. 

“You are a lot of work, Mr. Potter.”

He turned on the spot and Apparated, leaving behind a small cloud of white feathers drifting slowly to the ground.

~*~

The breaks were bad, and Harry had to stay in St. Mungo’s until Saturday morning. On Friday after work, Ron popped in to find a very disgruntled Harry.

“They gave me a second dose of Skele-gro,” Harry complained as soon as Ron stuck his head in the doorway. “They’re making me stay until tomorrow.”

“What did you used to tell me? ‘If you were a Muggle you’d be in a cast for six weeks, Ron!’”

Harry grimaced. “Oh yeah, right. There is that.”

Ron pulled out a chair and slid it over next to Harry’s bad. He sat down and crossed his legs.

“So, you going to give me your version of the story? Tell me why Draco Malfoy’s been carted off to St. Boniface’s Mind Care Institute?”

“Has he?” Harry perked up. 

“Apparently, Snape didn’t realize what cogs would start to turn when he showed up at St. Mungo’s with an injured Auror.”

Harry, who had been whisked off as soon as Severus got him to St. Mungo’s, had seen Severus only briefly last night, and that was after he’d been given a strong painkiller. He remembered only that Severus had said he had to go ‘take care’ of Malfoy and that he’d be back the next evening to check on him. He thought Severus had had a long, whispered conversation with the healer and had a vague recollection of him saying goodnight, running the back of his hand softly down along his cheek, tucking his hair back behind his ear.

“Did they give him a lot of trouble?” asked Harry. “They didn’t think that _he_ ….?”

“Nah. They just sent MacElroy over to talk to Snape about Malfoy.”

“MacElroy?” Harry snickered. MacElroy was older, by the book and completely no-nonsense. Severus would love him. Something occurred to him then. “Hey, how do you know about all of this? How’d you know I was here—was it in _The Prophet_ already?”

“No.” Ron grinned. “Snape popped over to tell us late last night. Hermione had him in for a drink—said he looked like he could use one. He’s in pretty deep already, isn’t he?”

“In deep?” asked Harry.

“With you, mate. He told us how it all played out, about Malfoy and all. They’re after Wood now, too, but he’s claiming he was Imperiused.”

“He did seem a bit off,” said Harry. “He was wearing his Quidditch practice robes when he came to our class.”

Hermione popped in to see him after Ron left, and Ginny and Molly after her. They were all gone when Severus finally appeared, looking wrung out and testy.

“Hey,” said Harry when Severus stepped inside the room. “You alright?”

“Long day,” muttered Severus, but he smiled. “You look well. Dying to get out of this place, are you?”

“Yeah—you going to break me out of here?” asked Harry. He was lying on top of the covers. He wiggled his toes. “They’re keeping me until tomorrow—gave me another dose of Skele-gro this morning and went on about bad breaks and vulnerable joints and all.”

“That’s for the best then,” said Severus. He sat down and watched Harry flex his toes and arch his feet. “Though it does interfere with our plans for this evening.”

“I’m free tomorrow,” said Harry hopefully.

“As am I,” said Severus. He looked up at Harry then. “Though you will have to take it easy, I imagine. Perhaps dinner at my home?”

“Are you cooking?” asked Harry.

“What? You think a Potions Master can’t cook?”

“Take-away is great,” said Harry with a grin. “Not much I don’t like.”

“Indian, then,” said Severus. “Six o’clock. I live over my shop, naturally.”

“Naturally,” repeated Harry. He already knew that. He reached out and took Severus’ hand. This time, it was Severus who laced their fingers together.

“You have heard about Mr. Malfoy?”

“Ron told me he got sent to a mental hospital in Wales.”

“I did not realize how aggressive the MLE becomes when one of their own is injured. They took my story, sent three operatives to the Malfoy Estate, found Draco exactly where I told them they would. He didn’t deny a thing. They brought him here for psychiatric evaluation and sent him off to St. Boniface’s early this morning.”

“Am I liable for the dead peacock?” asked Harry. “I imagine those things come with a high price tag.”

“A dead peacock is the least of Lucius Malfoy’s problems right now,” said Severus. 

“I feel bad about that, though,” mused Harry, rubbing the sore spot on his back where the peacock’s beak had pierced his skin. “I mean—the poor thing is just roosting down there, thinking about what delicacies the Malfoy House Elves were going to toss it for breakfast, and wham! Harry Potter falls from the sky on top of it!”

“Quick and painless,” said Severus. “Saved it from the cooking pot anyway.”

“Cooking pot? You mean…?”

“What did you think they were there for?” asked Severus. “Decoration?”

“Well...yes. Aren’t they?”

Severus shrugged. “They are eaten when they get a bit old, when they over-breed, when their tail plumage becomes tattered. Don’t give it another thought. The bird is dead, you are alive and Draco Malfoy is having a long talk with a mind healer and possibly doing a lovely water color depicting his lonely childhood of excess and greed.”

“Indian is fine,” said Harry, looking away and changing the subject. He didn’t want to discuss lonely childhoods, no matter how different his was than Draco Malfoy’s.

Severus bent to kiss him when he left thirty minutes later, chased away by the orderly announcing the end of visiting hours. He brushed Harry’s lips with his own, and then held his face in his hands. 

“I’m looking forward to tomorrow,” he said.

“Yeah, me too,” said Harry, his voice low, eyes locked with Severus.’

“Six o’clock then,” said Severus from the door.

“Six o’clock,” said Harry. He smiled and Severus was gone. “I’ll be there,” he said to the empty room. “With bells on.”

~*~

When Harry knocked on Severus’ shop door the next evening, it was precisely six o’clock and he was not wearing bells.

He was wearing some of his best casual robes, and he’d gotten a haircut. He’d even shined his boots.

He could smell the take-away as soon as he stepped inside. Severus led him through a door in the back of the room, up a narrow staircase and into an upper-floor flat that was all dark wood and sparse furnishings, then back into a smallish library that doubled as a parlor. This room, unlike the others, was cluttered, full of books, and warmed by a proper wizarding fireplace.

Harry eyed the large sofa and sat down gratefully on it.

“I’m supposed to keep my feet elevated whenever possible,” he said apologetically. He indicated his boots. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all. Allow me.” Severus stood in front of Harry and got down on his knees.

“No, I didn’t mean…I just wanted to put my feet up on the sofa is all.”

But Severus was unlacing his boots, pulling them off and setting them next to each other near the hearth. He helped Harry arrange his feet on the sofa then excused himself, coming back a few minutes later with a tray filled with bowls and dishes that he placed on the low table between the sofa and the fireplace. Five minutes later, he was sitting on the other end of the sofa, Harry’s feet on his thigh. They both had plates of Indian take-away.

“I could do this every night, you know,” said Harry with a sigh when the plates were empty and he had reversed positions, now leaning against Severus, feet extended on the sofa beside them, right arm wrapped around Severus’ neck. He looked up at Severus’ face, gave him an upside-down smile and initiated the first kiss.

“We’re going to end up in bed, aren’t we?” asked Severus after ten minutes of kissing that became ever more frantic. Harry knew he was trying to sound put out, but the hard cock below him told its own story.

Harry molded his lips to Severus,’ working his tongue along the seam of Severus’ mouth, groaning.

“You opposed to the idea?” he asked, breathing heavily into Severus’ mouth.

“I’m opposed to being uncomfortable on the couch. If we’re going to end up in the bedroom anyway, let us go there now.”

“How spontaneous,” groused Harry but he happily followed Severus down the passage and to the right, into a room with a large bed, dark furniture and a bay window overlooking Diagon Alley. They sat together on the edge of the bed, Harry resisting the urge to bounce to test the mattress, and Severus bent down to remove his shoes and socks. Harry watched him, watched the long, slim feet appear, watched the toes stretch. Inspired, he started on the buttons of his robes. He had them off rather quickly, and draped them on the chair beside the bed, then turned to Severus and pushed his hands away, unbuttoning the long row of shiny black buttons himself instead, from top to bottom. It felt like he was a voyeur of one of his own fantasies, imagining what was under that long row of buttons, undoing them one by one, caressing Severus’ chest with his thumbs as he worked, pushing apart the fabric and running his hands over the shirt beneath, grazing over a taut nipple, teasing it again until long-fingered hands caught his wrist and Severus’ lips kissed his hands, his knuckles. They looked at each other then, and Harry smiled, the last of the buttons giving way as he pushed the robes off of Severus’ shoulders, then unbuttoned the shirt below them and worked that off too.

They fell together sideways but Severus rolled onto him with ease, straddling Harry’s legs and pulling his shirt over his head, leaving him bare from the waist up. He ran calloused hands over firm pectorals, over the shiny scar from a nasty acid hex, down the treasure trail and over Harry’s navel, then stopped to unbutton his trousers, lower the zip and reach in to rub over the straining cock. Harry pushed upward, groaning as the fingers grasped him, as they worked over his cock, squeezed the base, danced again over the head. Merlin, he wanted Severus in him already, wanted to feel the stretch, the burn, the slide. He wanted to be on his stomach, arse in the air, Severus’ sweaty skin sliding over him as he pounded into him. He wanted it fast. He wanted to be filled and sated and boneless.

“Need you in me,” he said as he wiggled out of his pants and managed to undo Severus’ trouser button at the same time. He felt Severus’ cock through those trousers, hard and hungry, bigger than a man Severus’ size should be able to claim. His hand covered it, rubbed it, as Severus let his trousers slide down and kicked them off. He was panting as he lowered his mouth and kissed one of Harry’s nipples, tugging on it as Harry arched up and moaned, laving it, biting it until Harry dropped his hand away from his cock and wrapped it around Severus, pulling him closer to his chest, bucking up as the pleasure centered in his chest made his cock even harder.

“Some men…some men,” gasped Severus, moving to the other nipple and laving it, “find this to be over stimulating. They cannot abide nipple play. You…you though…”

“Not one of them,” panted Harry. He was lost in this. He was made for this, for sex in its rawest, neediest form, for hands and lips and teeth and cock working over him, making him forget his name in the primal need that rose up from him. 

“You are exquisite, Harry. Responsive.” Harry was thrusting up against Severus now, trying to come, cock so hard now, so close. “Do you want to come? Need to come?” He was moving his head down Harry’s chest now, dipping that sinful tongue in his belly button, kissing his hip until Harry couldn’t bear it any longer. His knees came up, his ankles around Severus’ neck, his hands gripping the headboard, and finally Severus’ mouth came down around him and swallowed him, sucking him in until the head of Harry’s cock was pressed against the back of his throat and _fuck_ Severus took him in _further_ , a finger swiping his entrance, returning, pressing in to the first knuckle. Harry’s whole body was a mass of need now. He wanted to come and he wanted to hold off. The finger inside him edged in further and he instinctively pulled away from it, reaching higher, further, staving off the orgasm pursuing him. Fingers, light, teasing, pressed against the base of his balls as the other finger plunged in further and he was gone, undone. He gripped the headboard as he cried out, the orgasm driving him up into Severus’ mouth, down into the bed like a sinking weight. He was unfurling, heavy and weightless, empty and so very, very sated.

Fuck. He was made for Severus. Made for Severus to love him. To play him like an instrument of desire. To unstring him, to make him sing.

Severus’ mouth slipped off his softening cock now, but his finger was still in him, still moving in and out and around, gently prodding. Severus was on his knees now, and Harry met his eyes as Severus pushed his knees further apart.

“I could stay like this for hours,” he said. “Learning you.”

“I want you in me,” said Harry, voice rough, ragged. “That was fabulous, but it wasn’t enough.”

Severus arched an eyebrow. The finger pressed further, deeper, crooking to reach his prostate. Harry shuddered. He’d thought he was spent, that the rest of the night was for Severus. Severus smiled wickedly.

“And I want to be in you,” he said. “We are far from finished this evening.”

And Harry understood. Understood why Severus was so detailed and deliberate in Spanish class. Why every word out of his mouth was well-formed and punctuated. He was a structural perfectionist. He didn’t just let loose. He was about control and form. He didn’t make mistakes. He planned, and he executed.

Harry had thought he wanted to be on his stomach, arse in the air, Severus sliding over his back, pounding into him as they slid together, as hands around his chest and stomach caressed him, as he pulled at his own cock with his own hands, to the rhythm of Severus’ pounding.

But he found this to be infinitely better, this position on his back with his hips and arse pulled up onto Severus’ thighs, Severus’ hands curling around his hipbones as that lovely cock pushed into him.

“You would have been wasted on Ginny Weasley,” Severus growled in that low voice as his cock slid in again, deep and steady and slow, then pulled out. “Wasted on any woman. Your arse is made for this….”

“For you,” panted Harry, squeezing around him, pushing back against him as Severus slid in again.

“Remember that,” grunted Severus, reaching down now with one hand and sliding it along Harry’s cock. Severus squeezed the cock, letting his hand slide up the length and over the head, bringing it down again, then back up. Harry didn’t know where to focus; he felt all the sensations simultaneously—the cock in his arse, the hand on his cock, the hand squeezing his hip. Severus was getting closer now. He could tell by the quickened pace, the way he spoke in short pants, the way his fingers dug into his hip as the other hand squeezed his cock, concentrating now on the head. He pressed inward, pushing into Harry harder, brushing his prostate as he angled up. Severus’ hips rocketed forward until with a long, low guttural moan he pressed in and came, working his hand up and down Harry’s cock while Harry arched, mind empty, vision blurred, every sensation centered on cock and balls and arse, until Harry too, was coming, and Severus collapsed on top of him, still buried to the hilt.

Severus’ heartbeat against Harry’s chest was strong and fast. 

They lay there together, Harry running his hands over Severus’ back, coming down slowly and sublimely from his second orgasm, until Severus’ heartbeat had slowed and he had fumbled for his wand, found it and uttered a cleaning spell, then wrapped his arms around Harry and slid to his side, cradling Harry against him.

“I need to tell you something,” said Harry after a few quiet moments. They had worked themselves under the covers by then, and lay spooned together, back to front, sharing a single pillow.

He felt Severus tense slightly behind him.

“Nothing bad,” he assured. “Just…well, just that I never had a first time like this before. Not in bed, anyway. This was…was like losing my virginity all over again. It was like the first time I never had, that I should have had.”

Severus’ hand around Harry’s middle tightened.

“Never did it on my back before either,” he said after another quiet moment, when Severus’ breathing was threatening to taper off into quiet snores.

Severus leaned in closer and nuzzled his neck. “I think you’ll find that quite a bit is different with me,” he said softly. But his grip around Harry tightened and Harry wondered, for a moment, if he was something new and different to Severus as well.

~*~

He was.

They made it through Spanish class—together—and pulled off an impressive dialogue performance with Harry as the bumbling bookseller clerk and Severus as the snarky client. Harry took Severus to a hotel in London one weekend where they watched Telemundo on the tele and Severus practiced his pronunciation. They ended up delivering the dialogue in the exaggerated style of a telenovela.

Draco Malfoy, after extensive psychiatric treatment, finally arrived at the realization that all of his problems stemmed from the removal of his third nipple as an infant. Opting for restorative surgery, he became, at last, a productive member of society, a model husband and a doting father. Most important, however, he let Harry and Severus completely out of his sights 

Harry and Severus went together to the Galapagos Islands that summer, armed with biology books in Spanish listing and describing the flora and fauna of the islands. Harry used every chance he got to speak Spanish, and labeled every item in their suitcases and in their cabin with its corresponding name in Spanish. Thus, Severus’ comb was labeled “peine,” his notebook “cuaderno,” his socks “calcetines” and the lube “lubricante.”

“Harry—you didn’t…you didn’t label that tortoise?” Severus and Harry were standing on the small veranda outside their cottage, sipping tea as the sun lay low in the west. 

“Well, I can’t exactly label the finches, can I?” asked Harry, smiling as a Galapagos tortoise took its time walking across the ground a few feet away, a yellow post-it note reading “Tortuga” seemingly attached to its shell.

“You can’t label the Galapagos tortoises either,” said Severus. “It’s not allowed. You can’t even touch them. Do you realize there are only twenty thousand of them alive now?”

“I didn’t touch it,” said Harry. “The note is hovering an inch above the shell. But if it will make you feel better…” He pointed his wand at the tortoise and summoned the post-it note.

“You’ll probably get thrown off the island for littering if you keep this up,” groused Severus later that night as he pulled a note off the mirror.

“Espejo,” said Harry from the bed.

“Right, es-pay-hoe,” repeated Severus with a sigh. He spoke to Harry, still facing the mirror. “You are _not_ going to learn any other languages. Not on my watch, anyway.”

“Come to bed, Severus.”

Harry watched Severus in the mirror, relaxed and happy after a day in the sun. Severus shrugged at his reflection then joined Harry in bed, lying down next to him on top of the covers and sighing as Harry wrapped him in his arms then, still rubbing his stiff shoulders with one hand, took hold of his cock, coaxing it to life.

“You do know the word for cock?” he asked as Harry worked his hand up and down over the shaft. “I am surprised it is not labeled too.”

“Pene,” said Harry as he slid his hand down the shaft again. “Pene grande. Pene duro. Pene magnífico. And I can’t label it—it wouldn’t stick.”

“As rich as the English language is in regards to the penis, it’s a shame you can only come up with ‘pene’ in Spanish,” challenged Severus.

Harry laughed. “Carajo. Bicho. Verga. Capullo.” 

“You’ve been talking to the locals again, haven’t you?”

“Hmm. There are people here from all over Latin America.” He caressed the cock in question, murmuring in Severus’ ear. “Pedazo. Pito. Tranca.”

“Mmmm.” Severus sighed as Harry crawled over him to lie between his legs. His tongue came out to taste the head.

_“Tragar. Chupar. Lamer. Besar.”_

“Swallow. Suck. Lick. Kiss. Yessss.” He hissed as Harry’s tongue circled his head. “Labios. Lengua. Dientes. Boca. Garganta.” _Lips. Tongue. Teeth. Mouth. Throat._

“I’m not the only one who’s been talking to the locals,” laughed Harry, continuing his assault on Severus’ cock. He squeezed his hand around the base, licked the thick vein, nipped the edge of the foreskin. “Te gusta?” Harry raised his head and looked at Severus. “Do you like this?”

“Me gusta,” breathed Severus, thrusting into Harry’s mouth.

Later, Severus spoke quietly into Harry’s ear.

“Te amo.” 

And Harry, nearly asleep in the quiet night, sated by lovemaking, whispered back.

“Ya lo se.” _I know_.

_Fin_


End file.
